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LECTURES 



ON 



RHETORIC 



AND \ 



BELLES LETTRES. 



BY HUGH BLAIR, D.D. F.R.S. E. 

ONE OF THE MINISTERS OF THE HIGH CHURCH, AND PROFESSOR OF RHETORIC 
AND BELLES LETTRES IN THE UNIVERSITY OE EDINBURGH. 



THIRTEENTH AMERICAN, 
FROM THE LAST LONDON EDITION. 

TO WHICH IS NOW ADDED 

THE LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 



PRINTED BY JAMES AND JOHN HARPER, 

FOR MESSRS. E. DUYCKINCK, COLLINS & HANNAV, COLLINS & CO. 
E. BLISS & E. WHITE, AND VALENTINE SEAMAN- 

1824, 




*& 






By 

NOV 3 ^25 






PREFACE 



The following Lectures were read in the University of Edin- 
burgh for twenty-four years. The publication of them, at present, 
was not altogether a matter of choice. Imperfect copies of them, 
in manuscript, from notes taken by students who heard them read, 
were first privately handed about ; and afterward frequently expo- 
sed to public sale. When the author saw them circulate so cur- 
rently, as even to be quoted in print,* and found himself often 
threatened with surreptitious publications of them, he judged it to 
be high time that they should proceed from his own hand, rather 
than come into public view under some very defective and erro- 
neous form. 

They were originally designed for the initiation of youth into the 
study of Belles Lettres, and of Composition. With the same inten- 
tion they are now published ; and therefore, the form of Lectures, 
in which they were at first composed, is still retained. The author 
gives them to the world, neither as a work wholly original, nor as a 
compilation from the writings of others . On every subj ect contained 
in them, he has thought for himself. He consulted his own ideas 
and reflections : and a great part of what will be found in these 
Lectures is entirely his own. At the same time, he availed himself 
of the ideas and reflections of others, as far as he thought them 
proper to be adopted. To proceed in this manner, was his duty 
as a public professor. It was incumbent on him, to convey to his 
pupils all the knowledge that could improve them ; to deliver not 
merely what was new, but what might be useful, from whatever 
quarter it came. He hopes, that to such as are studying to culti- 
vate their taste, to form their style, or to prepare themselves for 
public speaking or composition, his Lectures will afford a more com- 
prehensive view of what relates to these subjects, than, as far as he 
knows, is to be received from any one book in our language, 

* Biographia Britannica. Article Addisobt, 



IV PREFACE. 

In order to render his work of greater service, he has generally 
referred to the books which he consulted, as far as he remembers 
them ; that the readers might be directed to any farther illustration 
which they afford. But as such a length of time has elapsed since 
the first composition of these Lectures, he may, perhaps, have adopt- 
ed the sentiments of some author into whose writings he had then 
looked, without now remembering whence he derived them. 

In the opinions which he has delivered concerning such a variety 
of authors, and of literary matters, as come under his considera- 
tion, he cannot expect that all his readers will concur with him* 
The subjects are of such a nature, as allow room for much di- 
versity of taste and sentiment : and the author will respectfully 
submit to the judgment of the public. 

Retaining the simplicity of the lecturing style, as best fitted for 
conveying instruction, he has aimed, in his language, at no more than 
perspicuity. If, after the liberties which it was necessary for him to 
take, in criticising the style of the most eminent writers in our lan- 
guage, his own style shall be thought open to reprehension, all that 
he can say is, that his book will add one to the many proofs 
already afforded to the world, of its being much easier to give in- 
struction, than to set example . 



CONTENTS. 



Lect. page 

I. Introduction -'■■*.■•-?-,■- 9 

II. Taste - 15 

III. Criticism— Genius — Pleasures of taste — Sublimity in 

objects -25 

- IV. The sublime in writing --34 

V. Beauty, arid other pleasures of taste ------ 45 

VI. Rise and progress of language - 53 

VII. Rise and progress of language, and of writing - - - 62 

VIII. Structure of language 71 

IX. Structure of language — English tongue 81 

X. Style — Perspicuity and precision 91 

XI. Structure of sentences -- 101 

XII. Structure of sentences ----- 110 

XIII. Structure of sentences — Harmony 120 

XIV. Origin and nature of figurative language 131 

XV. Metaphor - 141 

XVI. Hyperbole — Personification — Apostrophe 152 

XVII. Comparison, Antithesis, Interrogation, Exclamation, and 

other figures of speech -- -163 

XVIII. Figurative Language— General Characters of Style — 
Diffuse, Concise— Feeble, Nervous— Dry, Plain, Neat, 
Elegant, Flowery 172 

XIX. General characters of Style — Simple, Affected, Vehe- 
ment — Directions for forming a proper style - - - 183 
XX. Critical examination of the Style of Mr. Addison, in No. 

411 of the Spectator - - 193 

XXI. Critical examination of the Style in No. 412 of the 

Spectator - - - - 203 

XXII. Critical Examination of the Style in No. 413 of' the 

Spectator --- 210 

XXIII. Critical Examination of the Style in No. 414 of the 

Spectator - ' 217 

XXIV. Critical Examination of the Style in a Passage of Dean 

Swift's writings -.-,-_- 224 

XXV. Eloquence, or Public Speaking — History of Eloquence- 
Grecian Eloquence — Demosthenes 234 

XXVI. History of Eloquence continued— Roman Eloquence- 
Cicero — Modem Eloquence - - - ■..- = -'■ - - 24 f 



VI CONTENTS* 

i 

LECT. PAGE 

XXVII. Different Kinds of Public Speaking — Eloquence of Po- 
pular Assemblies — Extracts from Demosthenes - <»_ 255 
XXVIII. Eloquence of the Bar — Analysis of Cicero's Oration 

for Cluentius - - - 267 

XXIX. Eloquence of the Pulpit 280 

XXX. Critical Examination of a Sermon of Bishop Atterbury's 292 
XXXI. Conduct of a Discourse in all its Parts— Introduction — 

Division — Narration and Explication - - - - - 305 
XXXII. Conduct of a Discourse — The Argumentative Part' — 

The Pathetic Part— The Peroration 316 

XXXIII. Pronunciation or Delivery - - 326 

XXXIV. Means of improving in Eloquence ' - . - - - - - 337 
XXXV. Comparative Merit of the Ancients and the Moderns — 

Historical Writing 346 

XXXVI. Historical Writing 356 

XXXVII. Philosophical Writing — Dialogue — Epistolary Writing 

— Fictitious History 366 

XXXVIII. Nature of Poetry — Its Origin and Progress— Versifica- 
tion - - ------- 376 

XXXIX. Pastoral Poetry— Lyric Poetry - - 387 

XL. Didactic Poetry — Descriptive Poetry ----- 399 

XLI. The Poetry of the Hebrews - - 410 

XLII. Epic Poetry 420 

XLIII. Homer's Iliad and Odyssey — Virgil's ^Eneid - - - 430 
XLIV. Lucan's Pharsalia — Tasso's Jerusalem — Camoens's Lu- 
said — Fenelon's Telemachus — Voltaire's Henriade — 

Milton's Paradise Lost --- 440 

XLV. Dramatic Poetry — Tragedy -- 452 

XLVI. Tragedy — Greek, French, English Tragedy - - - - 464 
XLVII. Comedy — Greek and Roman — French — English Co- 
medy ------- 476 



i 



THE 



LIFE OF DR. HUGH BLAIR. 



DR. HUGH BLAIR was born in Edinburgh on the 7th of April, 1718. He was 
descended from the ancient and respectable family of Blair, in Ayrshire. His great 
grandfather, Mr. Robert Blair, minister of St. Andrews, and chaplain to Charles I. 
was distinguished by his firm attachment to the cause of freedom, and his zealous 
support of the Presbyterian form of church government, in the time of the civil wars. 
The talents of this worthy man seem to have descended as an inheritance to his pos- 
terity. Of the two sons who survived him, David the eldest, was one of the Minis- 
ters of the Old Church in Edinburgh, and father of Mr. Robert Blair, minister of 
Athelstaneford, the celebrated author of the poem, entitled " The Grave," and 
grandfather of Lord President Blair, distinguished by his masculine eloquence, pro- 
found knowledge of law, and hereditary love of literature. From his youngest son 
Hugh, sprung Mr. John Blair, who was a respectable merchant, and one of the Magis- 
trates of Edinburgh. He married Martha Ogston ; and the first child of this mar- 
riage was the excellent person who is the subject of this narrative. 

In consequence of some misfortunes in trade, his father retired from mercantile 
business, and obtained an office in the excise ; yet his fortune was not so much 
impaired as to prevent him from giving his son a liberal education. 

From his earliest youth his views were turned towards the clerical profession, and 
his education received a suitable direction. After going through the usual gramma- 
tical course at the High-school, he entered the Humanity class, in the University of 
Edinburgh, in October, 1730, and spent eleven years in that celebrated seminary in 
the study of literature, philosophy, and divinity. In all the classes he was dis- 
tinguished among his companions, both for diligence and proficiency ; but in the 
Logic class he attained particular distinction, by an Essay On the Beautiful; which 
had the good fortune to attract the notice of Professor Stevenson, and was appointed 
to be read publicly at the end of the session, with the most flattering marks of the 
Professor's approbation. This mark of distinction made a deep impression on his 
mind, and determined the bent of his genius towards polite literature. 

At this time he formed a plan of study which contributed much to the accuracy 
and extent of his knowledge. It consisted in making abstracts of the most important 
works which he read, and in digesting them according to the train of his own thoughts. 
History, in particular, he resolved to study in this manner, and constructed a very 
comprehensive scheme of chronological tables for receiving into its proper place every 
important fact that should occur. This scheme has been given to the world in a more 
extensive and correct form by his learned friend Dr. John Blair, Prebendary of 
Westminster, in his " Chronology and History of the World." 

In 1739, he took the degree of Master of Arts ; and on that occasion, printed and 
defended a thesis, De fundamentis et obligatione Legis Natural, which exhibits an 
outline of the moral principles by which the world was afterward to profit in his 
Sermons. 

At this period he was engaged as a tutor in the family of Lord Lovat, and spent 
one summer in the north country, attending his Lordship's eldest son, afterward Ge- 
neral Fraser. When his pupil was appointed to the command of the 7lst Regiment, 



Vlll THE LIFE OF 

he testified his respect for his old tutor, by making him chaplain to one of its bat- 
talions. 

On the completion of his academical course, he was licensed to preach the Gospel 
by the Presbytery of Edinburgh, on the 21st of October, 1741 . His first appearances 
in the pulpit fully justified the expectations of his friends, and, in a few months, the 
fame of his eloquence procured for him a presentation to the church of Colessie, in 
Fifeshire, where he was ordained minister on the 23d September, 1742. 

He was not permitted to remain long in the obscurity of a country parish. In 
consequence of a vacancy in the second charge of the Cannongate of Edinburgh, which 
was to be supplied by popular election, his friends were enabled to recall him to a 
station more suited to his talents. Though Mr. Robert Walker, a popular and 
eloquent preacher, was his competitor, he obtained a majority of votes, and was 
admitted on the 14th of July, 1743. In this station he continued eleven years, 
assiduously devoted to the attainment of professional excellence, and the regular dis- 
charge of his parochial duties. 

In 1748, he married his cousin, Catharine Bannatyne, daughter of the Rev. 
James Bannatyne, one of _ the ministers of Edinburgh ; a woman distinguished 
for the strength of her understanding, and the prudence of her conduct. In con- 
sequence of a call from the Town Council of Edinburgh, he was translated from 
the Cannongate to Lady Yester's church, in the city, on the 11th of October, 1754; 
and from thence to the first charge in the High Church, on the 15th of June, 
175S, the most respectable clerical situation in the kingdom. The uniform prudence, 
ability, and success, which for a period of more than fifty years, accompanied all 
his ministerial labours ra that conspicuous and difficult charge, sufficiently evince 
the wisdom of their choice. His discourses from the pulpit were composed with 
uncommon care, and attracted universal admiration. 

In June, 1757, the University of St. Andrews showed its discernment by conferring 
on him the degree of Doctor in Divinity ; an academical honour which at that time 
was very rare in Scotland. 

His fame as a preacher was by this time established, but no production of his pen 
had yet been given to the world except two Sermons, preached on particular occa- 
sions, some translations, in verse, of passages of Scripture for the Psalmody of the 
church, and the article on Dr. Hutcheson's " System of Moral Philosophy," in the 
41 Edinburgh R-eview ;" a periodical work begun in 1755. Of this paper two numbers 
only appeared, in which his learned friends Dr. Adam Smith, Dr. Robertson, and 
Mr. Wedderburn, afterward Earl of Roslin, had a principal share. 

At an early period of his life, while he, and his cousin Mr. George Bannatyne, 
were students in Divinity, they wrote a poem entitled The Resurrection, copies of 
which were handed about in manuscript. JSTo one appearing to claim the perform- 
ance, an edition of it was published in 1749, in folio, to which the name William 
Douglas, M.D. was appended as the author. 

Besides the compositions above mentioned, he was supposed to have repelled an 
attack on his friend Lord Kaimes, by Mr. George Anderson, in his " Analysis of the 
Essays on Morality," &c. in a pamphlet entitled Observations on the Analysis, &c. 
8vo. 1755, and was believed likewise to have lent his aid in a formal reply made by 
Lord Kaimes himself, under the title of Obsemations against the Essays on Morality 
and Natural Religion, examined, 8vo. 1756." 

Having now found sufficient leisure, from the laborious duties of his profession, to 
turn his attention to general literature, he began seriously to think on a plan for 
teaching to others that art which had contributed so much to the establishment of his 
own fame. Encouraged by the success of his predecessors, Dr. Smith, and Dr Wat- 
son, and the advice of his friend Lord Kaimes, he prepared with this view, a course 
of Lectures on Composition, and having obtained the approbation of the University, 
he began to read them in the College on the 11th of December, 1 759. To this under- 
taking he brought all the qualifications requisite for executing it well ; and along with 
them a weight of reputation which could not fail to give effect to the lessons he should 
teach. Accordingly, his first course of Lectures was well attended, and received with 
great applause. 

In August, 1760, the Town Council of Edinburgh instituted a Rhetorical class in 
the University under his direction, as an addition to the system of academical educa- 
tion. And, in April, 1762, on a representation to his Majesty, setting forth the advan- 
tages of the institution, as a branch of academical education, the King, "• in considera- 
tion of his approved qualifications," erected and endowed his establishment in the 

* Lord Woodhouselee's Life of Lord Kaimes, Vol.1, p. 142, 



DR. BLAIR. <\ 

ersity, by appointing him the first Regius Professor of Rhetoric and Belles 
Lettres, with a salary of 70/. 

In 1760, he was made the instrument of introducing; into the world, " Fragments 
©f Ancient Poetry, collected in the Highlands of Scotland, and translated from the 
Gaelic or Erse language," 12mo. to which he prefixed a Pre/act. These " Fragments" 
were communicated by Mr. Macpherson, and followed in the same year, by " FingaP 
and "Teniora," published by him as translations of complete and regular epic 
poems, the production of Ossian, a Highland bard, of remote antiquity. Being 
himself persuaded of their being completely genuine, he published in 1762, A Cri- 
tical Dissertation on the Poems of Ossian, &c. 4to. in proof of their antiquity, and 
illustrative of their beauties, which spread the reputation of its author throughout 
Europe. Of those who attended to the subject, a greater number were disposed to 
agree with him as to the beauty of the Poems, than as to their authenticity. At the 
head of this set of critics was Dr. Johnson, who in his " Journey to the Western 
Islands," strenuously maintained their being altogether a forgery. Mr. Macpherson, 
the pretended translator, carefully reserved his latent claims to the rank and merit 
of an original poet, and did not conceal from those with whom he was particularly 
intimate, that the poems were entirely his own composition.* 

In 1773, it fell to his share to form the first uniform edition of the Works of the 
British Poets, which appeared in these kingdoms, printed at Edinburgh, in 42 vols. 
12mo. for Messrs. Creech and Balfour. The eleg'ance of this edition is no compen- 
sation for its incompleteness ; the contracted list of authors, marked out by the 
■editor, including none of those who have been denominated our older classics, except 
Milton and Cowley. Plis industry and taste were also exercised, about this time, in 
superintending an edition of the Works of Shakspeare, printed at Edinburgh, by 
Martin and Wotherspoon, in 10 vols. 12mo. 

Though his productions for the pulpit had long furnished instruction and delight 
to his own congregation, } r et it was not till the year 1777 that he gave to the world 
the first volume of his Sermons, which was printed at London in 8vo. for Messrs. 
Strahan and Cadell, London, and had a very extensive sale. 

It is remarkable, that when he transmitted his manuscript to Mr. Strahan the 
printer, after keeping it by him for some time, he wrote a letter to him, declining the 
publication. Having, however, sent one of the sermons to Dr. Johnson, for the sake 
of his opinion, he received from him, after the unfavourable letter was despatched, 
the following note : 

" I have read over Dr. Blair's first Sermon with more than approbation; to say it 
is good, is to say too little. It is excellently written, both as to doctrine and 
language."! 

Soon after, Mr. Strahan had a conversation with Dr. Johnson concerning the pub- 
lication, and very candidly wrote again to Dr. Blair, enclosing Dr. Johnson's note, 
and agreeing to purchase the volume for one hundred pounds. 

This volume of discourses was followed, at different intervals, by three other 
volumes, each succeeding volume increasing the sale of the former volumes. One 
hundred pounds were given for theirs/ volume, which, in consequence of the ex- 
tensive sale, the proprietors doubled. They gave him 300/. for the second, and 600/. 
for each of the third and fourth volumes. 

These discourses experienced a success unparalleled in the annals of pulpit elo- 
quence. They circulated rapidly and widely wherever the English tongue extends, 
were soon translated into almost all the languages of Europe, and were judged wor- 
thy of a public reward by his Majesty, who, in the year 1780, was graciously pleased 
to grant the author a pension of 200/. which continued till his death. It is said, that 
they were read to the R,oyal family by the Earl of Mansfield, and that her Majesty 
honoured them with her approbation, and took an active part in procuring him this 
proof of the Royal favour. 

Hitherto, the writers of sermons, among the Scottish preachers, had produced no 
models of a refined and polished eloquence. Their discourses abounded in cold 
divisions, metaphysical discussion, or loose and incoherent declamation. Among his 
contemporaries, some preachers had distinguished themselves by the good sense, 
sound reasoning, and manly simplicity of their pulpit compositions. " But the polish 
of Dr. Blair, which gave elegance to sentiments not too profound for common com- 
prehension, nor too obvious to be uninteresting, was wanting to render this species 
of composition popular, and generally pleasing. By employing the utmost exertions 

* Anderson's Life of Johnson, 3d edition, p. 342. 
; Boswell'e Life of Johnson, Vol. III. p. 100. 



X • THE LIFE OF 

of a vigorous mind, and of patient study, to select the Lest ideas, and to prune off 
every superfluous thought, by taking pains to embellish them by all the beauties of 
language and elegant expression, and by repeatedly examining, with the severity of 
an enlightened critic, every sentence, and erasing every harsh and uncouth phrase, 
he has produced the most elegant models of pulpit composition that have yet appeared 
in these kingdoms."* 

In the enjoyment of the praise of polished eloquence, there are other men who 
participate with Dr. Blair ; but in the application of talents and of learning, to render 
mankind wiser or better, there are few literary characters who can claim an equal 
share ; and, though the highest praise is due to his compositions for the pulpit, con- 
sidered as the productions of genius and of taste, yet, when they are regarded in 
this more important light, they entitle him to that still more honourable fame, 
which is the portion of the wise and good alone, and before which all literary splen- 
dour disappears. 

After reading his course of Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres in the Univer- 
sity above twenty years, he retired from the discharge of his academical duties in 
1783. His academical prelections constitute an era in the history of the progress oi" 
taste and elegance in Scotland. His classical taste, his aversion from refinement and 
skepticism, his good intentions, his respect for received opinions, his industry, and his 
experience in the art of teaching, enabled him to present to young men, aiming at 
literary composition, a most judicious, elegant, and comprehensive system of rules for 
forming their style, and cultivating their taste. 

The same year, he published his Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres, in 2 vols, 
4to. which brought him a considerable accession of emolument and fame. They 
have been frequently reprinted in 3 vols. 8vo. and deservedly occupy a place in our 
schools and Universities, as an excellent elementary treatise on the studies of compo- 
sition and eloquence. They contain an accurate analysis of the principles of literary 
composition^ in all the various species of writing; a happy illustration of those 
principles by the most beautiful and apposite examples, drawn from the best authors, 
both ancient and modern, and an admirable digest of the rules of elocution, as ap- 
plicable to the oratory of the pulpit, the bar, and the popular assembly. They do 
not aim at a work purely original ; for this would have been to circumscribe their 
\itility ; neither in point of style are they polished with the same degree of care 
as his Sermons : yet, so useful is the object of these Lectures, so comprehensive their 
plan, and such the excellence of the matter they contain, that, if not the most splendid, 
they will perhaps prove the most durable monument of his reputation. 

From this period his talents were consecrated solely to the instruction of his con- 
gregation, and the private and unseen labours. of his office ; preparing for the world 
the blessings of elegant instruction, and tendering to the mourner the lessons of 
divine consolation. From that part of his professional duty, which regarded the go- 
vernment of the church, he was prevented by his timidity and diffidence in his abilities, 
from taking any active part ; but he was steadily attached to the cause of moderation, 
and his opinion was eagerly courted by Dr. Robertson, Dr. Drysdale, Dr. Hill, Dr. 
Finlayson, and others, who managed ecclesiastical business. The outline of the pas- 
toral admonition, which the General Assembly, in 1799, addressed to the people 
under their charge, proceeded from his pen. 

In the course of his life he had frequently visited London, and had been introduced 
to the acquaintance of Dr. Johnson, Dr. Percy, afterward Bishop of Dromore, and 
other distinguished literary character.- in England. On the recommendation of Dr. 
Percy, the Duke and Dutchess of Northumberland committed to him the care of their 
second son, Lord Algernon Percy, afterward Earl of Beverley, when he prosecuted 
his studies at the University of Edinburgh. Among his countrymen, Lord Karnes, 
David Hume, Dr. Smith, Dr. Robertson, Dr. Fei gusson, Mr. John Home, and Dr. 
Carlyle, were the persons with v» hem he' lived in habits of intimacy, and with 
whom, during the greater part of his life, he maintahled social intercourse. 

Upon the death of Dr. Robertson, Principal of the University of Edinburgh, in 
the year 1793, the unanimous voice of the country acknowledged his claim to be 
appointed the successor of that illustrious man. "When the Magistrates and Council 
' f Edinburgh gave the appointment to another, it is certain that be felt the oversight 
as injurious to his pretensions. Flattered with the respect of the world, and unac- 
•ustomed to disappointments during a long life, that had been devoted to literary pur- 
swits, he could ill brook any neglect when that life was drawing to a close. 

' Andersous Life of l,<wr, : Work.? of thePritisli I'oet?. Yd. XL r- J05? 



DR. BLAIR, XI 

lu the year 1795, he suffered a heavy domestic calamity by the death of Mrs. Blair, 
-who had shared, with the tenderest affection, in all his fortunes, and contributed near 
half a century to his happiness and comfort. By her he had a son, who died in 
infancy, and a daughter, of a most amiable disposition, and elegant accomplishments, 
who died at the age of twenty. 

For some years he had felt himself unequal to the fatigue of instructing his congre- 
gation from the pulpit, yet he continued to the end of his life in the active and cheer- 
ful discharge of all his other official duties. At the solicitation of his friends, he 
preached the annual Sermon for the benefit of the Sons of the Clergy of Scotland in 
1797, which produced a liberal collection, and closed the labours of the pulpit. 

Though his bodily constitution was not robust, yet he enjoyed a general state of 
good health, and, through habitual cheerfulness, temperance, and ease, survived the 
usual term of human life. During the summer before his death, he was employed 
in preparing the last volume of his Sermons for the press, and evinced his usual vigour 
of understanding, and capacity of exertion. A few days before lie died he had no 
complaint ; but on the 24th of December, 1800, he felt a pain in his bowels, which was 
not then suspected to proceed from an inguinal hernia, which he considered as trifling. 
On the afternoon of the 26th, the pain increased, and the symptoms became violent 
and alarming. In consequence of an incarceration of the hernia, it produced a com- 
plete stoppage in the bowels, and an inflammation commenced, which it was impossi- 
ble to resist. Retaining to the last moment the full possession of his mental facul- 
ties, he expired on the morning of the 27th, with the composure and hope of a 
Christian pastor, in the 33d year of his age, and the 59th of his ministry. 

He bequeathed his house in Argyle-Square, which had been his residence above 
thirty years, and his personal property, which was considerable, to his relation, Mr. 
PuchardBarinatyne,merchantin Edinburgh, with an explicit injunction,, suggested by 
an excusable solicitude for his reputation, that all his manuscript sermons and letters 
should be destroyed. 

The Sermons which he had transcribed, and, in many parts, re-composed for the 
press, after he had completed his eighty-second year, were delivered to the publishers 
aboutsixweeks before his death, and printed in 1301, with a short account of his life, 
written by his friend and colleague, Dr. Finlayson ; who himself now needs a similar 
memorial of his talents and virtues. He had himself paid a similar tribute to the 
memory of his colleague Mr. Robert Walker, by prefixing a candid and affectionate 
Preface to the last volume of his Sermons. A more ample and elaborate account of 
his life and writings, drawn up at his request, by Dr. John Hill, Professor of Hu- 
manity in the University of Edinburgh, was printed in 1807, when the writer himself 
was beyond the reach of praise or censure. 

The name of Dr. Blair needs no panegyric. His literary honours are a trophy 
v/hich he has erected for himself, and which time will not destroy. Posterity will 
justly regard him as a benefactor of the human race, and as no ordinary instrument, 
in the hand of God, for refining the taste, improving the morality, and promoting the 
religion of the Christian world. 



LECTURE I. 



INTRODUCTION 



One of the most distinguished privileges which Providence ha9 cdn ; 
Ferred upon mankind, is the power' of communicating their thoughts to 
one another. Destitute of this power, reasou would be a solitary, and, 
in some measure, an unavailing principle. Speech is the great instru- 
ment by which man becomes beneficial to man : and it is to the inter- 
course and transmission of thought, by means of speech, that we are 
chiefly indebted for the improvement of thought itself. Small are the 
advances which a single unassisted individual can make towards perfect- 
ing any of his powers. What we call human reason, is not the effort or 
ability of one, so much as it is the result of the reason of many, arising 
from lights mutually communicated, in consequence of discourse and 
writing. 

It is obvious, then, that writing and discourse are objects entitled to 
the highest attention. Whether the influence of the speaker,or the enter- 
tainment of the hearer, be consulted ; whether utility or pleasure be 
the principal aim in view, we are prompted, by the strongest motives, 
to study how we may communicate our thoughts to one another with 
most advantage. Accordingly we find, that in almost every nation, a3 
soon as language had extended itself beyond that scanty communication 
which was requisite for the supply of men's necessities, the improvement 
of discourse began to attract regard. In the language even of rude un- 
cultivated tribes, we can trace some attention to the grace and force of 
those expressions which they used, when they sought to persuade or to 
affect. They were early sensible of a beauty in discourse^ and endea- 
voured to give it certain decorations, which experience had taught them 
it was capable of receiving, long before the study of those decorations 
was formed into a regular art. 

But, among nations in a civilized state, no art has been cultivated with 
more care, than that of language, style, and composition. The attention 
paid to it, may, indeed, be assumed as one mark of the progress of soci- 
ety toward its most improved period. For, according as society im- 
proves and flourishes, men acquire more influence over one another by 
means of reasoning and discourse ; and in proportion as that influence is 
felt to enlarge, it must follow, as a natural consequence, that they will be- 
stow more care upon the methods of expressing their conceptions with 
propriety and eloquence. Hence we find, that in all the polished nation^ 
of Europe, this study has been treated as highly important, and hae 
possessed a considerable place in every plan of liberal education, 



10 INTRODUCTION, [LECT. S, 

Indeed, when the arts of speech and writing are mentioned, I am sen- 
sible that prejudices against them are apt to rise in the minds of many. 
A sort of art is immediately thought of, that is, ostentatious and deceitful ; 
the minute and trifling study of words alone ; the pomp of expression ; 
the studied fallacies of rhetoric ; ornament substituted in the room of use. 
We need not wonder, that, under such imputations, all study of discourse ? 
as an art, should have suffered in the opinion of men of understanding ; 
and I am far from denying, that rhetoric and criticism have sometimes 
been so managed as to tend to the corruption, rather than to the improve- 
ment, of good taste and true eloquence. But sure it is equally possible to 
apply the principles of reason and good sense to this art, as to any other 
that is cultivated among men. If the following Lectures have any merit, 
it will consist in an endeavour to substitute the application of these prin- 
ciples in the place of artificial and scholastic rhetoric ; in an endeavour 
to explode false ornament, to direct attention more towards substance 
than show, to recommend good sense as the foundation of all good com- 
position, and simplicity as essential to all true ornament. 

When entering on this subject, I may be allowed, on this occasion, to 
suggest a few thoughts concerning the importance and advantages of such 
studies, and the rank they are entitled to possess in academical edu- 
cation.* I am under no temptation, for this purpose, of extolling their 
importance at the expense of any other, department of science. On the 
contrary, the study of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres supposes and requires 
a proper acquaintance with the rest of the liberal arts. It embraces 
them all within its circle, and recommends them to the highest regard. 
The first care of all such as wish either to write with reputation, or to 
speak in public so as to command attention, must be, to extend their 
knowledge ; to lay in a rich store of ideas relating to those subjects of 
which the occasions of life may call them to discourse or to write. Hence* 
among the ancients, it was a fundamental principle, and frequently incul- 
cated, " Quod omnibus disciplinis et artibus debet esse instructus orator ;' 7 
that the orator ought to be an accomplished scholar, and conversant 
in every part of learning. It is indeed impossible to contrive an art, 
and very pernicious it were if it could be contrived, which should give 
the stamp of merit to any composition rich or splendid in expression, but 
barren or erroneous in thought. They are the wretched attempts to- 
wards an art of this kind, which have so often disgraced oratory, and de- 
based it below its true standard. The graces of composition have been 
employed to disguise or to supply the want of matter ; and the temporary 
applause of the ignorant has been courted, instead of the lasting appro- 
bation of the discerning. But such imposture can never maintain its 
ground long. Knowledge and science must furnish the materials that 
form the body and substance of any valuable composition. Rhetoric 
serves to add the polish ; and we know that none but firm and solid bo- 
dies can be polished well. 

Of those who peruse the following Lectures, some, in conse- 
quence either of their profession, or of their prevailing incli- 

* The author was the first who read lectures on this subject in the University of 
Edinburgh. He began with reading them in a private character, in the year 1759. 
In the following year, he was chosen Professor of Rhetoric by the Magistrates and 
Town-Council of Edinburgh; and, in 1762, Ins Majesty was pleased to erect and 
endow a Profession of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres in that University ; and thp 
author was appointed the first Regius Professor. 






LECT.L] INTRODUCTION. 11 

nation, may have the view of being employed in composition, or in 
public speaking. Others, without any prospect of this kind, may wish 
only to improve their taste with respect to writing and discourse, and to 
acquire principles which will enable them to judge for themselves in 
that part of literature called the Belles Lettres. 

With respect to the former, such as may have occasion to communicate 
their sentiments to the public, it is abundantly clear that some prepara- 
tion of study is requisite for the end which they have in view. To 
speak or to write perspicuously and agreeably, with purity, with grace, 
and strength, are attainments of the utmost consequence to all who pro- 
pose, either by speech or writing, to address the public. For without 
being master of those attainments, no man can do justice to his own con- 
ceptions ; but how rich soever he may be in knowledge and in good sense, 
will be able to avail himself less of those treasures, than such as possess 
not half his store, but who can display what they possess with more pro- 
priety. Neither are these attainments of that kind for which we are in- 
debted to Nature merely. Nature has, indeed, conferred upon some a 
very favourable distinction in this respect beyond others. But in these, 
as in most other talents she bestows, she has left much to be wrought out 
by every man's own industry. So conspicuous have been the effects of 
study and improvement in every part of eloquence ; such remarkable 
examples have appeared of persons surmounting, by their diligence, the 
disadvantages of the most untoward nature ; that, among the learned, it 
has long been a contested, and remains still an undecided point, whether 
nature or art confer most towards excelling in writing and discourse. 

With respect to the manner in which art can most effectually furnish 
assistance for such a purpose, there may be diversity of opinions. I by 
no means pretend to say, that mere rhetorical rules, how just soever, are 
sufficient to form an orator. Supposing natural genius to be favourable, 
more, by a great deal, will depend upon private application and study, 
than upon any system of instruction that is capable of being publicly com- 
municated. But at the same time, though rules and instructions cannot 
do all that is requisite, they may, however, do much that is of real use. 
They cannot, it is true, inspire genius ; but they can direct and assist it. 
They cannot remedy barrenness ; but they may correct redundancy. 
They point out proper models for imitation. They bring into view the 
chief beauties that ought to be studied, and the principal faults that 
ought to be avoided ; and thereby tend to enlighten taste, and to lead 
genius, from unnatural deviations, into its proper channel. What would 
not avail for the production of great excellencies, may at least serve to 
prevent the commission of considerable errors. 

All that regards the study of eloquence and composition, merits the 
higher attention upon this account, that it is intimately connected with 
the improvement of our intellectual powers. For I must be allowed to 
say, that when we are employed, after a proper manner, in the study of 
composition, we are cultivating reason itself. True rhetoric and sound 
logic are very nearly allied. The study of arranging and expressing 
our thoughts with propriety, teaches to think, as well as to speak accu- 
rately. By putting our sentiments into words, we always conceive 
them more distinctly. Every one who has the slightest acquaintance 
with composition knows, that when he expresses himself ill on any 
subject, when his arrangement is loose, and his sentences become fee- 
hie, the defects of his style can. almost on everv occasion, be traced 



JJ lYniODUCTION. [UBCT.I, 

back to bis indistinct conception of the subject ; so close is the connexion 
between thoughts, and the words in which they are clothed. 

The study of composition, important in itself at all times, has acquired 
additional importance from the taste and manners of the present age. 
It is an age wherein improvements, in every part of science, have been 
prosecuted with ardour. To all the liberal arts much attention has been 
paid ; and to none more than to the beauty of language, and the grace 
and elegance of every kind of writing. The public ear is become re- 
fined. It will not easily bear what is slovenly and incorrect. Every 
author must aspire to some merit in expression, as well as in sentiment, 
\f he would not incur the danger of being neglected and despised. 

I will not deny that the love of minute elegance, and attention to infe- 
rior ornaments of composition, may at present have engrossed too great 
a degree of the public regard. It is indeed my opinion, that we lean to 
this extreme ; often more careful of polished style, than of storing it 
with thought. Yet hence arises a new reason for the study of just and 
proper composition. If it be requisite not to be deficient in elegance or 
ornament in times when they are in such high estimation, it is still more 
requisite to attain the power of distinguishing false ornament from true 3 
in order to prevent our being carried away by that torrent of false and 
frivolous taste, which never fails, when it is prevalent, to sweep along 
with it the raw and the ignorant. They who have never studied elo- 
quence in its principles, nor have been trained to attend to the genuine 
and manly beauties of good writing, are always ready to be caught by the 
mere glare of language ; and when they come to speak in public, or to 
compose, have no other standard on which to form themselves, except 
what chances to be fashionable and popular, how corrupted soever, and 
erroneous, that may be. 

Put as there are many who have no such objects as either composition 
or public speaking in view, let us next consider what advantages may be 
derived by them, from such studies as form the subject of these Lectures, 
To them rhetoric is not so much a practical art as a speculative science ; 
and the same instructions which assist others in composing, will assist 
them in discerning and relishing the beauties of composition. Whatever 
enables genius to execute well, will enable taste to criticise justly. 

When we name criticising, prejudices may perhaps arise, of the same 
kind with those which I mentioned before with respect to rhetoric. As 
rhetoric has been sometimes thought to signify nothing more than the 
scholastic study of words, and phrases, and tropes, so criticism has been 
considered as merely the art of finding faults ; as the frigid application 
of certain technical terms, by means of which persons are taught to cavil 
and censure in a learned manner. But this is the criticism of pedants 
only. True criticism is a liberal and humane art. It is the offspring of 
good sense and refined taste. It aims at acquiring a just discernment of 
the real merit of authors. It promotes a lively relish of their beauties, 
while it preserves us from that blind and implicit veneration which 
would confound their beauties and faults in our esteem. It teaches us, 
in a word, to admire and to blame with judgment, and not to follow the 
crowd blindly. 

In an age when works of genius and literature are so frequently the 
subjects of discourse, when every one erects himself into a judge, and 
when we can hardly mingle in polite society without bearing some share 
in such discussions : studies of this kind, it is not to he doubted, will ap- 






JJ2CT.I.J INTRODUCTION. io 

pear to derive part of their importance from the use to which they may 
be applied in furnishing materials for those fashionable topics of discourse, 
and thereby enabling us to support a proper rank in social life. 

But I should be sorry if we could not rest the merit of such studies on 
somewhat of solid and intrinsical use, independent of appearance and show. 
The exercise of taste and of sound criticism is, in truth, one of the most 
improving employments of the understanding. To apply the principles 
of good sense to composition and discourse ; to examine what is beauti- 
ful, and why it is so ; to employ ourselves in distinguishing accurately 
between the specious and the solid, between affected and natural orna- 
ment, must certainly improve us not a little in the most valuable part of 
all philosophy, the philosophy of human nature. For such disquisitions 
are very intimately connected with the knowledge of ourselves. They 
necessarily lead us to reflect on the operations of the imagination, and 
the movements of the heart : and increase our acquaintance with some 
of the most refined feelings which belong to our frame. 

Logical and ethical disquisitions move in a higher sphere, and are con- 
versant with objects of a more severe kind ; the progress of the under- 
standing in its search after knowledge, and the direction of the will in 
the proper pursuit of good. They point out to man the improvement of 
his nature as an intelligent being ; and his duties as the subject of moral 
obligation. Belles Lettres and criticism chiefly consider him as a being 
endowed with those powers of taste and imagination, which were 
intended to embellish his mind, and to supply him with rational and use- 
ful entertainment. They open a field of investigation peculiar to them- 
selves. AlLthat relates to beauty, harmony, grandeur, and elegance ; 
all that can soothe the mind, gratify the fancy, or move the affections, be- 
longs to their province. They present human nature under a different 
aspect from that which it assumes when viewed by other sciences. They 
bring to light various springs of action, which, without their aid, might 
have passed unobserved ; and which, though of a delicate nature, fre- 
quently exert a powerful influence on several departments of human life. 

Such studies have also this peculiar advantage, that they exercise our 
reason without fatiguing it. They lead to inquiries acute, but not pain- 
ful ; profound, but not dry nor abstruse. They strew flowers in the 
path of science ; and while they keep the mind bent in some degree, and 
active, they relieve it at the same time, from that more toilsome laoour 
to which it must submit in the acquisition of necessary erudition, or the 
investigation of abstract truth. 

The cultivation of taste is farther recommended by the happy effects 
which it naturally tends to produce on human life. The most busy man, 
in the most active sphere, cannot be always occupied by business. Men 
of serious professions cannot always be on the stretch of serious thought. 
Neither can the most gay and flourishing situations of fortune afford any 
man the power of filling all bis hours with pleasure. Life must always 
languish in the hands of the idle. It will frequently languish even in the 
hands of the busy, if they have not some employment subsidiary to that 
which forms their main pursuit. How then shall these vacant spaces, 
those unemployed intervals, which, more or less, occur in the life of 
every one, be filled up ? How can we contrive to dispose of them in any 
way that shall be more agreeable in itself, or more consonant to the dig- 
nity of the human mind, than in the entertainments of taste, and the study 
of polite literature ? He who is so happy as to have acquired a relish 



14 INTRODUCTION. jLECT. L 

for these, has always at hand an innocent and irreproachable amusement 
for his leisure hours, to save him from the danger of many a pernicious 
passion. He is not in hazard of being a burden to himself. He is not 
obliged to fly to low company, or to court the riot of loose pleasures, in 
order to cure the tediousness of existence. 

Providence seems plainly to have pointed out this useful purpose to 
which the pleasures of taste may be applied, by interposing them in a 
middle, station between the pleasures of sense and those of pure intel- 
lect. We were not designed to grovel always among objects so low as 
the former ; nor are we capable of dwelling constantly in so high a re- 
gion as the latter. The pleasures of taste refresh the mind after the 
toils of the intellect, and the labours of abstract study ; and they gradually 
raise it above the attachments of sense, and prepare it for the enjoyments 
of virtue. 

So consonant is this to experience, that, in the education of youth, 
no object has in every age appeared more important to wise men, 
than to tincture them early with a relish for the entertainments of taste. 
The transition is commonly made with ease from these to the discharge 
of the higher and more important duties of life. Good hopes may be en- 
tertained of those whose minds have this liberal and elegant turn. It is 
favourable to many virtues. Whereas, to be entirely devoid of relish 
for eloquence, poetry, or any of the fine arts, is justly construed to be an 
unpromising symptom of youth ; and raises suspicions of their being 
prone to low gratifications, or destined to drudge in the more vulgar and. 
illiberal pursuits of life. 

There are indeed few good dispositions of any kind with which the 
improvement of taste is not more or less connected. A cultivated taste 
increases sensibility to all the tender and humane passions, by giving 
them frequent exercise ; while it tends to weaken the more violent and 
fierce emotions. 

■— Ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes 

Emollit mores, nee sinit esse feros.* 

The elevated sentiments and high examples which poetry, eloquence, 
and history, are often bringing under our view, naturally tend to nourish 
in our minds public spirit, the love of glory, contempt of external fortune, 
and the admiration of what is truly illustrious and great. 

I will not go so far as to say that the improvement of taste and of vir- 
tue is the same ; or that they may always be expected to coexist in an 
equal degree. More powerful correctives than taste can apply, are ne- 
cessary for reforming the corrupt propensities which too frequently pre- 
vail among mankind. Elegant speculations are sometimes found to float 
on the surface of the mind, while bad passions possess the interior regions 
of the heart. At the same time this cannot but be admitted, that the 
exercise of taste is, in its native tendency, moral and purifying. From 
reading the most admired productions of genius, whether in poetry or 
prose, almost every one rises with some good impressions left on his 
mind ; and though these may not always be durable, they are at least to 
be ranked among the means of disposing the heart to virtue. One thing 
is certain, and I shall hereafter have occasion to illustrate it more fully, 
that, without possessing the virtuous affections in a strong degree, no 

These polish'd arts hare humaniz'd mankind, 
^o.ften'd the rude, and oalm'd the boistTOiis mind. 



LECT.II.] TASTE. la 

man can attain eminence in the sublime parts of eloquence. He must 
feel what a good man feels, if he expects greatly to move, or to interest 
mankind. They are the ardent sentiments of honour, virtue, magnani- 
mity, and public spirit, that only can kindle that fire of genius, and cal! 
up into the mind those high ideas, which attract the admiration of ages ; 
and if this spirit be necessary to produce the most distinguished efforts 
of eloquence, it must be necessary also to our relishing them with proper 
taste and feeling. 

On these general topics I shall dwell no longer j but proceed directly 
to the consideration of the subjects which are to employ the following 
Lectures. They divide themselves into five parts. First, Some intro- 
ductory dissertations on the Nature of Taste, and upon the Sources of its 
Pleasures : Secondly, The consideration of Language :■ Thirdly, Of 
Style : Fourthly, Of Eloquence properly so called, or Public Speaking 
in its different kinds : Lastly, A critical examination of the most distin- 
guished Species of Composition, both in prose and verse. 



LECTURE II. 



TASTE. 



The nature of the present undertaking leads me to begin with some 
inquiries concerning taste, as it is this faculty which is always appealed 
to in disquisitions concerning the merit of discourse and writing. 

There are few subjects on which men talk more loosely and indistinctly 
than on taste ; few which it is more difficult to explain with precision ; 
and none which in this course of Lectures will appear more dry or ab- 
stract. What I have to say on the subject, shall be in the following order, 
I shall first explain the Nature of Taste as a power of faculty in the hu- 
man mind. I shall next consider how far it is an improveable faculty. I 
shall show the sources of its improvement, and the characters of taste in 
its most perfect state. I shall then examine the various fluctuations to 
which it is liable, and inquire whether there be any standard to which we 
can bring the different tastes of men, in order to distinguish the corrupted 
from the true. 

Taste may be defined, " The power of receiving pleasure from the 
beauties of nature and of art." The first question that occurs concern- 
ing it is, whether it is to be considered as an internal sense, or as an ex- 
ertion of reason ? Reason is a very general term ; but if we understand 
by it that power of the mind which in speculative matters discovers truth, 
and in practical matters judges of the fitness of means to an end, I appre- 
hend the question may be easily answered. For nothing can be more 
clear, than that taste is not resolvable into any such operation of reason. 
It is not merely through a discovery of the understanding, or a deduction 
of argument, that the mind receives pleasure from a beautiful prospect or 
a fine poem. Such objects often strike us intuitively, and make a strong 
impression, when we are unable to assign the reasons of our being pleased . 
They sometimes strike in the same manner the philosopher and the 



tt> TASTE, [LECTiUi 

peasant ; the boy and the man. Hence the faculty by which we relish 
such beauties, seems more clearly allied to a feeling of sense, than to a 
process of the understanding ; and accordingly, from an external sense 
it has borrowed its name ; that sense by which we receive and distin- 
guish the pleasures of food having, in several languages, given rise to the 
word taste* in the metaphorical meaning under which we now consider it 
However, as in all subjects which regard the operations of the mind, 
the inaccurate use of words is to be carefully avoided, it must not be in- 
ferred from what I have said, that reason is entirely excluded from the 
exertions of taste. Though taste, beyond doubt, be ultimately founded 
on a certain natural and instinctive sensibility to beauty, yet reason, as I 
shall show hereafter, assists taste in many of its operations, and serves to 
enlarge its power.* 

Taste, in the sense in which I have explained it, is a faculty common 
in some degree to all men. Nothing that belongs to human nature is 
more general than the relish of beauty of one kind or other ; of what 
is orderly, proportioned, grand, harmonious, new, or sprightly. In chil- 
dren, the rudiments of taste discover themselves very early in a thousand 
instances : in their fondness for regular bodies, their admiration of pic- 
tures and statues, and imitations of all kinds ; and their strong attach- 
ment to whatever is new or marvellous. The most ignorant peasants are 
delighted with ballads and tales, and are struck with the beautiful appear- 
ances of nature in the earth and heavens. Even in the deserts of America, 
where human nature shows itself in its most uncultivated state, the sava- 
ges have their ornaments of dress, their war and their death songs, their 
harangues and their orators* We must, therefore, conclude the princi- 
ples of taste to be deeply founded in the human mind. It is no less es- 
sential to man to have some discernment of beauty, than it is to possess 
the attributes of reason and of speech.! 

But although none be wholly devoid of this faculty, yet the degrees in 
which it is possessed are widely different. In some men only the feeble 
glimmerings of taste appear : the beauties which they relish are of the 
Coarsest kind ; and of these they have but a weak and confused impres- 

* See Dr. Gerard's Essay on Taste.— D'Alembert's Reflections on the Use and 
Abuse of Philosophy in matters which relate to Taste.— Reflexions Critiques sur la 
Poesie et sur la Peinture, tome ii. ch. 22 — 31. Elements of Criticism, c. 25. — Mr. 
Hume's Essay on the Standard of Taste. — Introduction to the Essay on the Sublime 
and Beautiful. 

t On the subject of taste, considered as a power or faculty of the mind, much less 
is to be found among the ancient than among the modern rhetorical and critical wri- 
ters. The following remarkable passage in Cicero serves, however, to show, that his 
ideas on this subject agree perfectly with what has been said above. He is speaking 
of the beauties of style and numbers : " Illud autem nequis admiretur quonam modo 
haec vulgus imperitorum in audiendo, notet ; cum in omni genere, turn in hoc ipso, 
magna quaedam est vis, incredibilisque naturae. Omnes enim tacito quodam sensu, 
sine ulla arte aut ratione, quae sint in artibus de rationibus recta et prava dijudicant : 
idque cum faciunt in picturis, et in signis, et in aliis cperibus, ad quonam intelligentiam 
a natura minus habent instrumenti, turn multo ostendunt magis in verborum, numero- 
rum, vocumque judicio ; quod ea sunt in communibus infixasensibus ; neque earum re- 
rum quenquam funditus natura voluit esse expertem." Cic. de Orat. lib. iii. cap. 
50. edit. Gruteri. — Quinctilian seems to include taste (for which, in the sense which 
we now give to that word, the ancients appear to have had no distinct name) under 
what he calls judicium. a Locus de judicio, mea quidem opinione, adeo partibus hu- 
j us operis omnibus connectus ac mistus est, ut ne a sententiis quidem aut verbis sal 
tern singulus possit separari, nee magis arte traditur, quam gustus aut odor. — Ut 
contraria vitemus et communia, ne quid in eloquendo corruptum obscurumque sit, 
,-r»fpratur oportet ad census qui non docentuv." Institute lib. vi, cap. 3, edit Obrechtj. 



LECT.ILj TASTE, fj 

sion ; while in others, taste rise? to an acute discernment, and a lively 
enjoyment of the most refined beauties. la general, we may observe, 
that in the powers and pleasures of taste, there is a more remarkable in- 
equality among men, than is usually found in point of common sense, rea- 
son, and judgment. The constitution of our nature in this, as in all other 
respects, discovers admirable wisdom. In the distribution of those talents 
which are necessary for man's well-being, Nature hath made less distinc- 
tion among her children. But in the distribution of those which belong 
only to the ornamental part of life, she hath bestowed her favours with 
more frugality. She hath both sown the seeds more sparingly, and 
rendered a higher culture requisite for bringing them to perfection. 

This inequality of taste among men is owing, without doubt, in part, to 
the different frame of their natures ; to nicer organs, and finer internal 
powers, with which some are endowed beyond others. But if it be owing 
in part to Nature, it is owing to education and culture still more. The 
illustration of this leads to my next remark on this subject, that taste is a 
most improvable faculty, if there be any such in human nature ; a 
remark which gives great encouragement to such a course of study as we 
are now proposing to pursue. Of the truth of this assertion we may 
easily be convinced, by only reflecting on that immense superiority 
which education and improvement give to civilized above barbarous 
nations, in refinement of taste : and on the superiority which they give in 
the same nation to those who have studied the liberal arts, above the rude 
and untaught vulgar. The difference is so great, that there is perhaps 
no one particular in which these two classes of men are so far removed 
from each other, as in respect of the powers and the pleasures of taste ; 
and assuredly, for this difference no other general cause can be assigned 
but culture and education. — I shall now proceed to show what the means 
are by which taste becomes so remarkably susceptible of cultivation and 
progress. 

Reflect first upon that great law of our nature, that exercise is the chief 
source of improvement in all our faculties. This holds both in our 
bodily, and in our mental powers. It holds even in our external senses ; 
although these be less the subject of cultivation than any of our other 
faculties. We see how acute the senses become in persons whose trade 
or business leads to nice exertions of them. Touch, for instance, 
becomes infinitely more exquisite in men whose employment requires 
them to examine the polish of bodies, than it is in others. They who deal 
in microscopical observations, or are accustomed to engrave on precious 
stones, acquire surprising accuracy of sight in discerning the minutest 
objects ; and practice in attending to different flavours and tastes of 
liquors, wonderfully improves the power of distinguishing them, and of 
tracing their composition. Placing internal taste, therefore, on the fool- 
ing of a simple sense, it cannot be doubted that frequent exercise and 
curious attention to its proper objects, must greatly heighten its power. 
Of this we have one clear proof in that part of taste which is called an 
ear for music. Experience every day shows, that nothing is more im- 
provable. Only the simplest and plainest compositions are relished at 
first ; use and practice extend our pleasure ; teach us to relish finer 
melody, and by degrees enable us to enter into the intricate and com- 
pounded pleasures of harmony. So an eye for the beauties of painting 
is never all at once acquired. It is gradually formed by being conversant; 
among pictures, and studying the works of the best masters. 



18 TAStE. [LECT. U. 

Precisely in the same manner, with respect to the beauty of composi- 
tion and discourse, attention to the most approved models, study of the 
best authors, comparisons of lower and higher degrees of the same beau- 
ties, operate towards the refinement of taste. When one is only begin- 
ning his acquaintance with works of genius, the sentiment which attends 
them is obscure and confused. He cannot point out the several excel- 
lencies or blemishes of a performance which he peruses ; he is at a loss 
on what to rest his judgment : all that can be expected is, that he should 
tell in general whether he be pleased or not. But allow him more ex- 
perience in works of this kind, and his taste becomes by degrees more 
exact and enlightened. He begins to perceive not only the character of 
the whole, but the beauties and defects of each part ; and is able to 
describe the peculiar qualities which he praises or blames. The mist 
is dissipated which seemed formerly to hang over the object ; and he can 
at length pronounce firmly, and without hesitation, concerning it. Thus, 
in taste, considered as mere sensibility, exercise opens a great source of 
improvement. 

But although taste be ultimately founded on sensibility, it must not be 
considered as instinctive sensibility alone. Reason and good sense, as I 
before hinted, have so extensive an influence on all the operations and 
decisions of taste, that a thorough good taste may well be considered as 
a power compounded of natural sensibility to beauty, and of improved un- 
derstanding. In order to be satisfied of this, let us observe, that the 
greater part of the productions of genius are no other than imitations of 
nature ; representations of the characters, actions, or manners of men. 
The pleasure we receive from such imitations or representations is found- 
ed on mere taste ; but to judge whether they be properly executed, 
belongs to the understanding, which compares the copy with the original. 

In reading, for instance, such a poem as the iEneid, a great part of 
our pleasure arises from the plan or story being well conducted, and all 
the parts joined together with probability and due connexion ; from the 
characters being taken from nature, the sentiments being suited to the 
characters, and the style to the sentiments. The pleasure which arises 
from a poem so conducted, is felt or enjoyed by taste as an internal sense ; 
but the discovery of this conduct in the poem is owing to reason ; and the 
more that reason enables us to discover such propriety in the conduct, the 
greater will be our pleasure. We are pleased, through our natural sense 
of beauty. Reason shows us why, and upon what grounds, we are plea- 
sed. Wherever, in works of taste, any resemblance to nature is aimed at ; 
wherever there is any reference of parts to a whole ; or of means to an 
end, as there is iudeed in almost every writing and discourse ; there the 
understanding must always have a great part to act. 

Here then is a wide field for reason's exerting its powers in relation to 
the objects of taste, particularly with respect to composition, and works 
of genius ; and hence arises a second and a very considerable source of 
the improvement of taste, from the application of reason and good sense 
to such productions of genius. Spurious beauties, such as unnatural 
characters, forced sentiments, affected style, may please for a little ; but 
they please only because their opposition to nature and to good sense has 
not been examined, or attended to. Once show how nature might have 
been more justly imitated or represented ; how the writer might have 
managed his subject to greater advantage ; the illusion will presently be 
dissipated, and these false beauties will please no more. 



LECT.H.j TASTE. 19 

Prom these two sources then, first, the frequent exercise of taste, and 
next the application of good sense and reason to the objects of taste, taste 
as a power of the mind receives its improvement. In its perfect state, 
it is undoubtedly the result both of nature and of art. It supposes our 
natural sense of beauty to be refined by frequent attention to the most 
beautiful objects, and at the same time to be guided and improved by the 
light of the understanding;- 

I must be allowed to add, that as a sound head, so likewise a good heart, 
is a very material requisite to just taste. The moral beauties are not 
only in themselves superior to all others, but they exert an influence, 
either more near or more remote, on a great variety of other objects of 
taste. Wherever the affections, characters, or actions of men are con- 
cerned (and these certainly afford the noblest subjects to genius,) there 
can be neither any just or affecting description of them, nor any thorough 
feeling of the beauty of that description, without our possessing the vir- 
tuous affections. He whose heart is indelicate or hard, he who has no 
admiration of what is truly noble or praise-worthy, nor the proper sympa- 
thetic sense of what is soft and tender, must have a very imperfect relish 
of the highest beauties of eloquence and poetry. 

The characters of taste, when brought to its most improved state, are 
all reducible to two, Delicacy and Correctness. 

Delicacy of taste respects principally the perfection of that natural sen- 
sibility on which taste is founded. It implies those, finer organs or powers 
which enable us to discover beauties that lie hid from a vulgar eye. One 
may have strong sensibility, and yet be deficient in delicate taste. He 
may be deeply impressed by such beauties as he perceives ; but he per- 
ceives only what is in some degree coarse, what is bold and palpable ; 
while chaster and simpler ornaments escape his notice. In this state 
taste generally exists among rude and unrefined nations. But a person 
of delicate taste both feels strongly and feels accurately. He sees dis= 
tinctions and differences where others see none ; the most latent beauty 
does not escape him, and he is sensible of the smallest blemish. Delicacy 
of taste is judged of by the same marks that we use in judging of the deli- 
cacy of an external sense. As the goodness of the palate is not tried by 
strong flavours, but by a mixture of ingredients, where, notwithstanding 
the confusion, we remain sensible of each ; in like manner, delicacy of 
internal taste appears, by a quick and lively sensibility to its finest, most 
compounded, or most latent objects. 

Correctness of taste respects chiefly the improvement which that 
faculty receives through its connexion with the understanding. A man 
of correct taste is one who is never imposed on by counterfeit beauties ; 
who carries always in his mind that standard of good sense which he 
employs in judging of every thing. He estimates with propriety the 
comparative merit of the several beauties which he meets with in any 
work of genius ; refers them to their proper classes ; assigns the prin- 
ciples, as far as they can be traced, whence their power of pleasing 
flows ; and is pleased himself precisely in that degree in which he ought, 
and no more. 

It is true that these two qualities of taste, delicacy and correctness, 
mutually imply each other. No taste can be exquisitely delicate with- 
out being correct ; nor can be thoroughly correct without being delicate. 
But still a predominancy of one or other quality in the mixture is often 
visible. The power of delicacy is chiefly seen in discerning the true 



20 TASTE. [LECT.U. 

merit of a work ; the power of correctness, in rejecting false preten- 
sions to merit. Delicacy leans more to feeling ; correctness more to 
reason and judgment. The former is more the gift of nature ; the latter, 
more the product of culture and art. Among the ancient critics, Lon- 
ginus possessed most delicacy ; Aristotle, most correctness. Among the 
moderns, Mr. Addison is a high example of delicate taste ; Dean Swift, 
had he written on the subject of criticism, would perhaps have afforded 
the example of a correct one. 

Having viewed taste in its most improved and perfect state, I come 
next to consider its deviations from that state, the fluctuations and changes 
to which it is liable ; and to inquire whether, in the midst of these, there 
be any means of distinguishing a true from a corrupted taste. This 
brings us to the most difficult part of our task. For it must be acknow- 
ledged, that no principle of the human mind is, in its operations, more 
fluctuating and capricious than taste. Its variations have been so great 
and frequent, as to create a suspicion with some, of its being merely 
arbitrary ; grounded on no foundation, ascertainable by no standard, but 
wholly dependent on changing fancy ; the consequence of which would 
be, that all studies or regular inquiries concerning the objects of taste 
were vain. In architecture, the Grecian models were long esteemed 
the most perfect. In succeeding ages, the Gothic architecture alone 
prevailed, and afterward the Grecian taste revived in all its vigour, and 
engrossed the public admiration. In eloquence and poetry, the Asiatics 
at no time relished any thing but what was full of ornament, and splen- 
did in a degree that we should denominate gaudy ; whilst the Greeks 
admired only chaste and simple beauties, and despised the Asiatic os- 
tentation. In our own country, how many writings that were greatly 
extolled two or three centuries ago, are now fallen into entire disre- 
pute and oblivion ? Without going back to remote instances, how very 
different is the taste of poetry which prevails in Great Britain now, 
from what prevailed there no longer ago than the reign of king Charles 
II. with the authors too of that time deemed an Augustan age : when 
nothing was in vogue but an affected brilliancy of wit ; when the simple 
majesty of Milton was overlooked, and Paradise Lost almost entirely 
unknown ; when Cowley's laboured and unnatural conceits were admired 
as the very quintessence of genius ; Waller's gay sprightliness was mis- 
taken for the tender spirit of love poetry ; and such writers as Suckling 
and Etheridge were held in esteem for dramatic composition. 

The question is, what conclusion we are to form from such instances 
as these ? Is there any thing that can be called a standard of taste, by 
appealing to which we may distinguish between a good and a bad taste 'I 
Or is there in truth no tuch distinction ; and are we to hold that, accord- 
ing to the proverb, there is no disputing of tastes ; but that whatever 
pleases is right, for that reanon, that it does please ? This is the question, 
and a very nice and subtle one it is, which we are now to discuss. 

I begin by observing, that if there be no such thing as any standard 
of taste, this consequence must immediately follow, that all tastes are 
equally good ; a position which, though it may pass unnoticed in slight 
matters, and when we speak of the lesser differences among the tastes 
of men, yet when we apply it to the extremes, presently shows its absur- 
dity. For is there any one who will seriously maintain that the taste 
of a Hottentot or a Laplander is as delicate and as correct as that of a 
Longinus or an Addison ? or, that he can be charged with no defect or 



LECT.II.J TASTE, 21 

incapacity, who thinks a common news-writer as excellent an historian 
as Tacitus ? As it would be held downright extravagance to talk in this 
manner, we are led unavoidably to this conclusion, that there is some 
foundation for the preference of one man's taste to that of another ; or 
that there is a good and a bad, a right and a wrong, in taste, as in other 
things. 

But to prevent mistakes on this subject, it is necessary to observe 
next, that the diversity of tastes which prevails among mankind, does 
not in every case infer corruption of taste, or oblige us to seek for some 
standard in order to determine who are in the right. The tastes of 
men may differ very considerably as to their object, and yet none of them 
be wrong. One man relishes poetry most ; another takes pleasure in 
nothing but history. One prefers comedy; another tragedy. One 
admires the simple ; another the ornamented style. The young are 
amused with gay and sprightly compositions. The elderly are more 
entertained with those of a graver cast. Some nations delight in bold 
pictures of manners, and strong representations of passion. Others in- 
cline to more correct and regular elegance both in description and senti- 
ment. Though all differ, yet all pitch upon some one beauty which 
peculiarly suits their turn of mind ; and therefore no one has a title to 
condemn the rest. It is not in matters of taste, as in questions of mere 
reason, where there is but one conclusion that can be true, and all the 
rest are erroneous. Truth, which is the object of reason, is one ; 
beauty, which is the object of taste, is manifold. Taste, therefore, admits 
of latitude and diversity of objects, in sufficient consistency with goodness 
or justness of taste. 

But then, to explain this matter thoroughly, I must observe farther, 
that this admissible diversity of tastes can only have place where the 
objects of taste are different. Where it is with respect to the same 
object that men disagree, when one condemns that as ugly, which another 
admires as highly beautiful, then it is no longer diversity, but direct 
opposition of taste, that takes place ; and therefore one must be in the 
right, and another in the wrong, unless that absurd paradox were allowed 
to hold, that all tastes are equally good and true. One man prefers Virgil 
to Homer. Suppose that I, on the other hand, admire Homer more 
than Virgil. I have as yet no reason to say that our tastes are contra- 
dictory. The other person is more struck with the elegance and tender- 
ness which are the characteristics of Virgil ; I, with the simplicity and 
fire of Homer. As long as neither of us deny that both Homer and 
Virgil have great beauties, our difference falls within the compass of that 
diversity of tastes, which I have shown to be natural and allowable. But 
if the other man shall assert that Homer has no beauties whatever ; that 
be holds him to be a dull and spiritless writer, and that he would as soon 
peruse any old legend of knight-errantry as the Iliad ; then 1 exclaim, 
that my antagonist either is void of all taste, or that his taste is corrupted 
in a miserable degree ; and I appeal to whatever I think the standard of 
taste, to show him that he is in the wrong. 

What that standard is, to which, in such opposition of tastes, we are 
obliged to have recourse, remains to be traced. A standard properly 
signifies, that which is of such undoubted authority as to be the test of 
other things of the same kind. Thus a standard weight or measure is 
that which is appointed by law to regulate all other measures and weights. 



22 TASTE. [LECT.II. 

Thus the court is sain to be the standard of good breeding ; and the Scrip- 
ture, of theological truth. 

When we say that nature is the standard of taste, we lay down a prin- 
ciple very true and just, as far as it can be applied. There is no doubt, 
that in all cases where an imitation is intended of some object that exists 
in nature, as in representing human characters or actions, conformity to 
nature affords a full and distinct criterion of what is truly beautiful. 
Reason hath in such cases full scope for exerting its authority ; for ap- 
proving or condemning, by comparing the copy with the original. But 
there are innumerable cases in which this rule cannot be at all applied ; 
and conformity to nature, is an expression frequently used without any 
distinct or determinate meaning. We must therefore search for some- 
what that can be rendered more clear and precise, to be the standard of 
taste. 

Taste, as I before explained it, is ultimately founded on an internal 
sense of beauty, which is natural to men, and which, in its application to 
particular objects, is capable of being guided and enlightened by reason. 
Now, were there any one person who possessed in full perfection all the 
powers of human nature, whose internal senses were in every instance 
exquisite and just, and whose reason was unerring and sure, the determi- 
nations of such a person concerning beauty, would, beyond doubt, be a 
perfect standard for the taste of all others. Wherever their taste differed 
from his, it could only be imputed to some imperfection in their natural 
powers. But as there is no such living standard, no one person to 
whom all mankind will allow such submission to be due, what is there of 
sufficient authority to be the standard of the various and opposite tastes 
of men ? most certainly there is nothing but the taste, as far it can be 
gathered, of human nature. That which men concur the most in admi- 
ring must be held to be beautiful. His taste must be esteemed just and 
true, which coincides with the general sentiments of men. In this stand- 
ard we must rest. To the sense of mankind the ultimate appeal must 
ever lie, in all works of taste. If any one should maintain that sugar was 
bitter, and tobacco was sweet, no reasonings could avail to prove it. The 
taste of such a person would infallibly be held to be diseased, merely 
because it differed so widely from the taste of the species to which he 
belongs. In like manner, with regard to the objects of sentiment or 
internal taste, the common feelings of men carry the same authority, and 
have a title to regulate the taste of every individual. 

But have we then, it will be said, no other criterion of what is beauti- 
ful than the approbation of the majority ? Must we collect the voices of 
others, before we form any judgment for ourselves, of what deserves ap- 
plause in eloquence or poetry ? By no means ; there are principles of 
reason and sound judgment which can be applied to matters of taste as 
well as to the subjects of science and philosophy. He who admires or 
censures any work of genius, is always ready, if his taste be in any degree 
improved, to assign some reasons for his decision. He appeals to prin- 
ciples, and points out the grounds on which he proceeds. Taste is a sort 
of compound power, in which the light of the understanding always min« 
gles, more or less, with the feelings of sentiment. 

But, though reason can carry us a certain length in judging concerning 
works of taste, it is not to be forgotten that the ultimate conclusions to 
which our reasonings lead, refer at last to sense and perception. We may 
speculate and argue concerning propriety of conduct in a tragedy, or an. 



LECT. II.] TASTE. $% 

epic poem. Just reasonings on the subject will correct the caprice of 
unenlightened taste, and establish principles for judging of what deserves 
praise. But, at the same time, these reasonings appeal always, in the 
last resort, to feeling. The foundation upon which they rest, is what has 
been found from experience to please mankind universally. Upon this 
ground we prefer a simple and natural, to an artificial and affected style ; 
a regular and well-connected story, to loose and scattered narratives ; a 
catastrophe which is tender and pathetic, to one which leaves us un- 
moved. It is from consulting our own imagination and heart, and from 
attending to the feelings of others, that any principles are formed which 
acquire authority in matters of taste.* 

When we refer to the concurring sentiments of men as the ultimate 
test of what is to be accounted beautiful in the arts, this is to be always 
understood of men placed in such situations as are favourable to the pro- 
per exertions of taste. Every one must perceive, that among rude and 
uncivilized nations, and during the ages of ignorance and darkness, any 
loose notions that are entertained concerning such subjects carry no 
authority. In those states of society, taste has no materials on which to 
operate. It is either totally suppressed, or appears in its lowest and most 
imperfect form. We refer to the sentiments of mankind in polished and 
flourishing nations ; when arts are cultivated and manners refined ; when 
works of genius are subjected to free discussion, and taste is improved 
by science and philosophy. 

Even among nations, at such a period of society, I admit, that accidental 
causes may occasionally warp the proper operations of taste ; sometimes 
the state of religion, sometimes the form of government, may for a while 
pervert it ; a licentious court may introduce a taste for false ornaments 
and dissolute writings. The usage of one admired genius may procure 
approbation for his faults, and even render them fashionable. Some- 
times envy may have power to bear down, for a little, productions of 
great merit ; while popular humour, or party spirit, may, at other times, 
exalt to a high, though short-lived reputation, what little deserved it. 
But though such casual circumstances give the appearance of caprice to 
the judgments of taste, that appearance is easily corrected. In the 
course of time, the genuine taste of human nature never fails to disclose 
itself, and to gain the ascendant over any fantastic and corrupted modes of 
taste which may chance to have been introduced. These may have cur- 

* The difference between the authors who found the standard of taste upon the 
common feelings of human nature ascertained by general approbation, and those who 
found it upon established principles which can be ascertained by reason, is more an 
apparent than a real difference. Like many other literary controversies it turns chiefly 
on modes of expression. For they who lay the greatest stress on sentiment and 
feeling, make no scruple of applying argument and reason to matters of taste. They 
appeal, like other writers to established principles, in judging of the excellencies of 
eloquence or poetry; and plainly show, that the general approbation to which they 
ultimately recur, is an approbation resulting from discussion as well as from senti- 
ment. They, on the other hand, who, in order to vindicate taste from any suspicion, 
of being arbitrary, maintain that it is ascertainable by the standard of reason, ad- 
mit, nevertheless, that what pleases universally, must, on that account be held to be 
truly beautiful ; and that no rules or conclusions concerning objects of taste, can 
have any just authority if they be found to contradict the general sentiments of men. 
These two systems, therefore, differ in reality very little from one another. Senti- 
ment and reason enter into both ; and by allowing to each of these powers its due 
place, both systems may be rendered consistent. Accordingly, it is in this light 
that I have endeavoured to place the subject, 



24 TASTE. [LECT.II. 

rency for a while, and mislead superficial judges ; but being subjected to 
examination, by degrees they pass away ; while that alone remains which 
is founded on sound reason, and the native feelings of men. 

I by no means pretend, that there is any standard of taste, to which, in 
every particular instance, we can resort for clear and immediate deter- 
mination. Where, indeed, is such a standard to be found for deciding 
any of those great controversies in reason and philosophy, which per- 
petually divide, mankind ? In the present case, there was plainly no oc- 
casion for any such strict and absolute provision to be made. In order 
to judge of what is morally good or evil, of what man ought, or ought not 
in duty to do, it was fit that the means of clear and precise determination 
should be afforded us. Bat to ascertain in every case with the utmost 
exactness what is beautiful or elegant, was not at all necessary to the 
happiness of man. And therefore some diversity in feeling was hero 
allowed to take place ; and room was left for discussion and debate ; con- 
cerning the degree of approbation to which any work of genius is entitled. 

The conclusion which it is sufficient for us to rest upon is, that taste 
is far from being an arbitrary principle, which is subject to the fancy of 
every individual, and which admits of no criterion for determining 
whether it be false or true. Its foundation is the same in all human minds. 
It is built upon sentiments and perceptions which belong to our nature ; 
and which, in general, operate with the same uniformity as our other 
intellectual principles. When these sentiments are perverted by igno- 
rance and prejudice, they are capable of being rectified by reason. Their 
sound and natural state is ultimately determined, by comparing them with 
the general taste of mankind. Let men declaim as much as they please, 
concerning the caprice and the uncertainty of taste, it is found by expe- 
rience, that there are beauties, which, if they be displayed in a proper 
light, have power to command lasting and general admiration. In every 
composition, what interests the imagination, and touches the heart, 
pleases all ages and all nations. There is a certain string to which, when 
properly struck, the human heart is so made as to answer. 

Hence the universal testimony which the most improved nations of the 
earth have conspired, throughout a long tract of ages, to give to some 
few works of genius; such as the Iliad of Homer and the iEneid of 
Virgil. Hence the authority which such works have acquired as stand- 
ards, in some degree, of poetical composition ; since from them we are 
enabled to collect what the sense of mankind is, concerning those beau- 
ties which give them the highest pleasure, and which therefore poetry 
ought to exhibit. Authority or prejudice may, in one age or country, 
give a temporary reputation to an indifferent poet, or a bad artist ; but 
when foreigners, or when posterity, examine his works, his faults are dis- 
cerned, and the genuine taste of human nature appears. " Opinionum 
comment*- delet dies ; naturae judicia confirmat." Time overthrows 
the illusions of opinion, but establishes the decisions of nature. 



2.3 



LECTURE III 



CRITICISM—GENIUS— PLEASURES OF TASTE- 
SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. 

Taste, criticism, and genius, are words currently employed, without 
distinct ideas annexed to them. In beginning a course of lectures where 
such words must often occur, it is necessary to ascertain their meaning 
with some precision. Having in the last lecture treated of taste, I pro- 
ceed to explain the nature and foundation of criticism. True criticism is 
the application of taste and of good sense to the several fine arts. The 
object which it proposes, is to distinguish what is beautiful and what is 
faulty in every performance ; from particular instances to ascend to 
general principles ; and so to form rules or conclusions concerning the 
several kinds of beauty in works of genius. 

The rules of criticism are not formed by any induction, d priori, as it 
is called ; that is, they are not formed by a train of abstract reasoning, in- 
dependent of facts and observations. Criticism is an art founded wholly 
on experience ; on the observations of such beauties as have come near- 
est to the standard which I before established : that is, of such beauties 
that have been found to please mankind most generally. For example ; 
Aristotle's rules concerning the unity of action in dramatic and epic com- 
position, were not rules first discovered by logical reasoning, and then 
applied to poetry ; but they were drawn from the practice of Homer 
and Sophocles ; they were founded upon observing the superior plea- 
sure which we receive from the relation of an action which is one and en- 
tire, beyond what we receive from the relation of scattered and uncon- 
nected facts. Such observations taking their rise at first from feeling 
and experience, were found on examination to be so consonant to reason 
and to the principles of human nature* as to pass into established rules, 
and to be conveniently applied forjudging of the excellency of any per- 
formance. This is the most natural account of the origin of criticism. 

A masterly genius, it is true, will of himself, untaught, compose in such 
a manner as shall be agreeable to the most material rules of criticism : 
for as these rules are founded in nature, nature will often suggest them 
in practice. Homer, it is more than probable, was acquainted with no 
systems of the art of poetry. Guided by genius alone, he composed in 
■verse a regular story, which all posterity has admired. But this is no 
argument against the usefulness of criticism as an art. For as no human 
genius is perfect, there is no writer but may receive assistance from 
critical observations upon the beauties and faults of those who have gone 
before him. No observations or rules can indeed supply the defect of 
genius, or inspire it where it is wanting. But they may often direct it 
into its proper channel ; they may correct its extravagancies, and point 
out to it the most just and proper imitation of nature. Critical rules 
are designed chiefly to show the faults that ought to be avoided. To 
nature we must be indebted for the production of eminent beatifies. 

D 



£6 CRITICISM. [LECT. Ill, 

From what has been said, we are enabled to form a judgment concern- 
ing those complaints which it has long been fashionable for petty authors 
to make against critics and criticism. Critics have been represented as 
the great abridgers of the native liberty of genius ; as the imposers of 
unnatural shackles and bonds upon writers, from whose cruel persecu- 
tion they must fly to the public, and implore its protection. Such suppli- 
catory prefaces are not calculated to give very favourable ideas of the 
genius of the author. For every good writer will be pleased to have his 
work examined by the principles of sound understanding and true taste. 
The declamations against criticism commonly proceed upon this supposi- 
tion, that critics are such as judge by rule, not by feeling ; which is so far 
from being true, that they w 7 ho judge after this manner are pedants, not cri- 
tics. For all the rules of genuine criticism I have shown to be ultimately 
founded on feeling ; and taste and feeling are necessary to guide us in the 
application of these rules to every particular instance. As there is no- 
thing in which all sorts of persons more readily affect to be judges than 
in works of taste, there is no doubt that the number of incompetent critics 
will always be great. But this affords no more foundation for a general 
invective against criticism, than the number of bad philosophers or rea- 
soners affords against reason and philosophy. 

An objection more plausible may be formed against criticism, from the 
applause that some performances have received from the public, which, 
when accurately considered, are found to contradict the rules established 
by criticism. Now, according to the principles laid down in the last lec- 
ture, the public is the supreme judge to whom the last appeal must be made 
in every work of taste ; as the standard of taste is founded on the senti- 
ments that are natural and common to all men. But with respect to this, 
we are to observe, that the sense of the public is often too hastilyjudged 
of. The genuine public taste does not always appear in the first applause 
given upon the publication of any new work. There are both a great 
vulgar and a small, apt to be catched and dazzled by very superficial beau - 
ties, the admiration of which in a little time passes away ; and sometimes 
a writer may acquire great temporary reputation merely by his compli- 
ance with the passions or prejudices, with the party spirit or supersti- 
tious notions that may chance to rule for a time almost a whole nation . 
In such cases, though the public may seem to praise, true criticism may 
with reason condemn ; and it will in progress of time gain the ascendant : 
for the judgment of true criticism, and the voice of the public, when 
once become unprejudiced and dispassionate, will ever coincide at last 

Instances, I admit, there are, of some works that contain gross trans- 
gressions of the laws of criticism, acquiring, nevertheless, a general, and 
even a lasting admiration. Such are the plays of Shakspeare, which, 
considered as dramatic poems, are irregular in the highest degree. But 
then we are to remark, that they have gained the public admiration, not 
by their being irregular, not by their transgressions of the rules of art, 
but in spite of such transgressions. They possess other beauties which 
are conformable to just rules ; and the force of these beauties has 
been so great as to overpower all censure, and to give the public a 
degree of satisfaction superior to the disgust arising from their blem- 
ishes. Shakspeare pleases, not by his bringing the transactions of many 
years into one play ; not by his grotesque mixtures of tragedy and 
comedy in one piece, nor by the strained thoughts and affected wit- 
ticisms, which he sometimes employs. These we consider as blem- 



LECT. III.] GENIUS, £7 

ishes, and impute them to the grossness of the age in which he lived, 
"But he pleases by his animated and masterly representations of charac- 
ters, by the liveliness of his descriptions, the force of his sentiments, 
and his possessing, beyond all writers, the natural language of passion : 
beauties which true criticism no less teaches us to place in the highest 
rank, than nature teaches us to feel. 

I proceed next to explain the meaning of another term, which there 
will be frequent occasion to employ in these lectures ; that is, Genius. 

Taste and genius are two words frequently joined together ; and 
therefore by inaccurate thinkers, confounded. They signify, however, 
two quite different things. The difference between them can be clear- 
ly pointed out ; and it is of importance to remember it. Taste consists 
in the power of judging ; genius, in the power of executing. One may 
have a considerable degree of taste in poetry, eloquence, or any of the 
fine arts, who has little or hardly any genius for composition or execution 
in any of these arts : but genius cannot be found without including taste 
also. Genius, therefore, deserves to be considered as a higher power 
of the mind than taste. Genius always imports something inventive or 
creative ; which does not rest in mere sensibility to beauty where it is 
perceived, but which can, moreover, produce new beauties, and exhi- 
bit them in such a manner as strongly to impress the minds of other?. 
Refined taste forms a good critic ; but genius is farther necessary to 
form the poet, or the orator. 

It is proper also to observe, that genius is a word, which, in common 
acceptation, extends much farther than to the objects of taste. It is 
used to signify that talent or aptitude which we receive from nature, for 
excelling in any one thing whatever. Thus we speak of a genius for 
mathematics, as well as a genius for poetry ; of a genius for war, for 
politics, or for any mechanical employment. 

This talent or aptitude for excelling in some one particular, is, I have 
said, what we receive from nature. By art and study, no doubt, it may 
be greatly improved ; but by them alone it cannot be acquired. As 
genius is a higher faculty than taste, it is ever, according to the usual 
frugality of nature, more limited in the sphere of its operations. It is 
not uncommon to meet with persons who have an excellent taste in 
several of the polite arts, such as music, poetry, painting, and elo- 
quence, altogether : but, to find one who is an excellent performer in all 
these arts, is much more rare ; or rather, indeed, such an one is not 
to be looked for. A sort of universal genius, or one who is equally and 
indifferently turned towards several different professions and arts, is not 
likely to excel in any. Although there may be some few exceptions, 
yet in general it holds, that when the bent of the mind is wholly directed 
towards some one object, exclusive in a manner of others, there is the 
fairest prospect of eminence in that, whatever it be. The rays must 
converge to a point, in order to glow intensely. This remark I here 
choose to make, on account of its importance to young people ; in lead- 
ing them to examine with care, and to pursue with ardour, the current 
and pointing of nature towards those exertions of genius in which they 
are most likely to excel. 

A genius for any of the fine arts, as I before observed, always sup~ 
poses taste ; and it is clear, that the improvement of taste will serve 
both to forward and to correct the operations of genius, In proportion 



2$ PLEASURES OF TASTE. j LECT. 0$. 

as the taste of a poet, or orator, become? more refined with respect to 
the beauties of composition, it will certainly assist him to produce the 
more finished beauties in his work. Genius, however, in a poet or 
orator, may sometimes exist in a higher degree than taste ; that is, 
genius may be bold and strong, when taste is neither very delicate, nor 
very correct. This is often the case in the infancy of arts ; a period, 
when genius frequently exerts itself with great vigour, and executes 
with much warmth ; while taste, which requires experience, and im- 
proves by slower degrees, hath not yet attained to its full growth. Homer 
and Shakspeare are proofs of what I now assert ; in whose admirable 
writings are found instances of rudeness and indelicacy, which the more 
refined taste of later writers, who had far inferior genius to them, 
would have taught them to avoid. As all human perfection is limited, 
this may very probably be the law of our nature, that it is not given to 
one man to execute with vigour and fire, and at the same time, to attends 
to all the lesser and more refined graces that belong to the exact per- 
fection of his work : while on the other hand, a thorough taste for those 
inferior graces is, for the most part, accompanied with a diminution of 
sublimity and force. 

Having thus explained the nature of taste, the nature and importance 
of criticism, and the distinction between taste and genius ; I am now 
to consider the sources of the pleasures of taste. Here opens a 
very extensive field ; no less than all the pleasures of the imagi- 
nation, as they are commonly called, whether afforded us by na- 
tural objects, or by the imitations and descriptions of them. But 
it is not necessary to the purpose of my lectures, that all these should 
be examined fully ; the pleasure which we receive from discourse, or 
writing, being the main object of them. All that I propose is to give 
some openings into the plepiSures of taste in general ; and to insist more 
particularly upon sublimity and beauty. 

We are far from having yet attained to any system concerning this 
subject. Mr. Addison was the first who attempted a regular inquiry, in 
his Essay on the Pleasures of the Imagination, published in the sixth 
volume of the Spectator. He has reduced these Pleasures under three 
beads ; beauty, grandeur, and novelty. His speculations on this subject 
if not exceedingly profound, are, however, very beautiful and enter- 
taining ; and he has the merit of having opened a track, which was before 
unbeaten. The advances made since his time in this curious part of 
philosophical criticism, are not very considerable ; though some ingenious 
writers have pursued the subject. This is owing, doubtless, to that 
thinness, and subtilty, which are found to be properties of all the feelings 
of taste. They are engaging objects ; but when we would lay firm 
hold of them ; and subject them to a regular discussion, they are always 
ready to elude our grasp, It is difficult to make a full enumeration of the 
several objects that give pleasure to taste : it is more difficult to define 
all those which have been discovered and to reduce them under proper 
classes ; and, when we would go farther, and investigate the efficient 
causes of the pleasure which we receive from such objects, here, 
above all, we find ourselves at a loss. For instance ; we all learn by 
experience, that certain figures of bodies appear to us more beautiful 
than others. On inquiring farther, we find that the regularity of some 
figures, and the graceful variety of others, are the foundation of the 
beauty which we discern in them ; but when we attempt to go a step 



EECT. III.;; SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS, 29 

beyond this, and inquire what is the cause of regularity and variety 
producing in our minds the sensation of beauty, any reason we can as- 
sign is extremely imperfect. These first principles of internal sensation 
nature seems to have covered with an impenetrable veil. 

It is some comfort, however, that although the efficient cause be 
obscure, the final cause of those sensations lies in many cases more 
open : and, in entering on this subject, we cannot avoid taking notice 
of the strong impression which the powers of taste and imagination 
are calculated to give us of the benignity of our Creator. By endow- 
ing us with such powers, he hath widely enlarged the sphere of the 
pleasures of human life ; and those, too, of a kind the most pure and 
innocent. The necessary purposes of life might have been abundantly 
answered, though our senses of seeing and hearing had only served to 
extinguish external objects, without conveying to us any of those re- 
fined and delicate sensations of beauty and grandeur, with which we 
are now so much delighted. This additional embellishment and glory, 
which, for promoting our entertainment, the Author of Nature hath 
poured forth upon his works, is one striking testimony, among many 
others, of benevolence and goodness. This thought, which Mr. Addison 
first started, Dr. Akenside, in his poem on the Pleasures of the Imagina 
tion,has happily pursued. 

Not content 

With every food of life to nourish man, 
By kind illusions of the wondering sense, 
Thou mak'st all nature beauty to his eye, 
Or music to his ear.— — — 

I shall begin with considering the pleasure which arises from sub- 
limity or grandeur, of which I propose to treat at some length ; both, 
as this has a character more precise and distinctly marked than any 
other of the pleasures of the imagination, and as it coincides more di- 
rectly with our main subject. For the greater distinctness, I shall, first, 
treat of the grandeur or sublimity of external objects themselves, which 
will employ the rest of this lecture ; and, afterward, of the descrip- 
tion of such objects, or of what is called the sublime in writing, which 
shall be the subject of a following lecture. I distinguish these two 
things from one another, the grandeur of the objects themselves when 
they are presented to the eye, and the description of that grandeur in 
discourse or writing ; though most critics, inaccurately, 1 think, blend 
them together ; and I consider grandeur and sublimity as terms synony- 
mous, or nearly so. If there be any distinction between them, it arises 
from sublimity's expressing grandeur in its highest degree.* 

It is not easy to describe, in words, the precise impression which 
great and sublime objects make upon us when we behold them, but 
every one has a conception of it. It produces a sort of internal eleva- 
tion and expansion ; it raises the mind much above its ordinary state : 
and fills it with a degree of wonder and astonishment, which it cannot 
well express. The emotion is certainly delightful ; but it is altogether 
of the serious kind ; a degree of awfulness and solemnity, even ap- 
proaching to severity, commonly attends it when at its height ; very dis- 
tinguishable from the more gay and brisk emotion raised by beautiful 
objects. 

* See a Philosophical Inquiry into the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beaw- 
iWul , Dr. Gerard. on Taste, Section II. Elements of Criticism, Chap. IV, 






SO SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS, [LECT. II. 

The simplest form of external grandeur appears in the vast and 
boundless prospects presented to us by nature ; such as wide extended 
plains, to which the eye can see no limits ; the firmament of Heaven ; 
or the boundless expanse of the ocean. All vastness produces the im- 
pression of sublimity. It is to be remarked, however, that space, ex- 
tended in length, makes not so strong an impression as height or depth. 
Though a boundless plain be a grand object, yet a high mountain, to 
which we look up, or an awful precipice or tower whence we look 
down on the objects which lie below, is still more so. The exces- 
sive grandeur of the firmament arises from its height, joined to its 
boundless extent ; and that of the ocean, not from its extent alone, but 
from the perpetual motion and irresistible force of that mass of waters. 
Wherever space is concerned, it is clear, that amplitude or great- 
ness of extent, in one dimension or other, is necessary to grandeur. 
Remove all bounds from any object, and you presently render it sublime. 
Hence infinite space, endless numbers, and eternal duration, fill the mind 
with great ideas. 

From this some have imagined, that vastness or amplitude of extent, 
is the foundation of all sublimity. But 1 cannot be of this opinion, be- 
cause many objects appear sublime which have no relation to space at all. 
Such, for instance, is great loudness of sound. The burst of thunder, or 
of cannon, the roaring of winds, the shouting of multitudes, the sound of 
vast cataracts of water, are all incontestably grand objects. " I heard 
the voice of a great multitude, as the sound of many waters, and of 
mighty thunderings, saying, Allelnjah." In general we may observe, 
that great power and force exerted, always raise sublime ideas ; and 
perhaps the most copious source of these is derived from this quarter. 
Hence the grandeur of earthquakes and burning mountains ; of great 
conflagrations ; of the stormy ocean, and overflowing waters ; of tem- 
pests of wind ; of thunder and lightning ; and of all the uncommon vio- 
lence of the elements. Nothing is more sublime than mighty power and 
strength. A stream that runs within its banks is a beautiful object ; but 
when it rushes down with the impetuosity and noise of a torrent, it pre- 
sently becomes a sublime one. From lions and other animals of strength, 
are drawn sublime comparisons in poets. A race-horse is looked upon 
with pleasure ; but it is the war-horse, " whose neck is clothed with 
thunder," that carries grandeur in its idea. The engagement of two 
great armies, as it is the highest exertion of human might, combines a 
variety of sources of the sublime ; and has accordingly been always 
considered as one of the most striking and magnificent spectacles that 
can either be presented to the eye, or exhibited to the imagination in 
description. 

For the farther illustration of this subject, it is proper to remark, that 
all ideas of the solemn and awful kind, and even bordering on the terrible, 
tend greatly to assist the sublime ; such as darkness, solitude, and silence. 
What are the scenes of nature that elevate the mind in the highest de- 
gree, and produce the sublime sensation ? Not the gay landscape, the 
flowery field, or the flourishing city ; but the hoary mountain, and the soli- 
tary lake ; the aged forest, and the torrent falling over the rock. Hence, 
too, night scenes are. commonly the most sublime. The firmament, when 
filled with stars, scattered in such vast numbers, and with such magnifi- 
cent profusion, strikes the imagination with a more awful grandeur, than 
when we view it enlightened with all the splendour of the sun. The deep 



LECT.IU.] SUBLIMITY IN OBJECTS. $[ 

sound of a great bell, or the striking of a great clock, are at any time 
grand ; but when heard amid the silence and stillness of the night, they 
become doubly so. Darkness is very commonly applied for adding sub- 
limity to all our ideas of the Deity. " He maketh darkness his pavilion ; 
he dvvelleth in the thick cloud." So Milton : 



How oft, amidst 



Thick clouds and dai*k> does heaven's all-ruling Sire 

Choose to reside, his glory unobscur'd, 

And, with the majesty of darkness, round 

Circles his throne Book II. 263. 

Observe, with how much art Virgil has introduced all those ideas of 
silence, vacuity, and darkness, when he is going to introduce his hero to 
the infernal regions, and to disclose the secrets of the great deep. 

Dii quibus imperium est animarum,umbra3que silentes, 
Et Chaos, et Phlegethon, loca nocte silentia late, 
Sit mihi fas audita loqui ; sit numine vestro 
Pandere res alta terra, et caligne niersas. 
Ibant obscuri, sola sub nocte, per umbram, 
Perque domos Ditis vacuos, et inania regna ; 
Quale per incertam lunam, sub luce maligna, 
Est iter in silvis .* 

These passages I quote at present, not so much as instances of sublime 
writing, though in themselves they truly are so, as to show, by the effect 
of them, that the objects which they present to us, belong to the class of 
sublime ones. 

Obscurity, we are farther to remark, is not unfavourable to the sublime. 
Though it render the object indistinct, the impression, however, may be 
great ; for, as an ingenious author has well observed, it is one thing to 
make an idea clear, and another to make it affecting to the imagination ; 
and the imagination may be strongly affected r and, in fact, often is so, by 
objects of which we have no clear conception. Thus we see, that almost 
all the descriptions given us of the appearances of supernatural beings, 
carry some sublimity, though the conceptions which they afford us be 
confused and indistinct. Their sublimity arises from the ideas, which 
they always convey, of superior power and might, joined with an awful 
obscurity. We may see this fully exemplified in the following noble pas- 
sage of the book of Job : " In thoughts from the visions of the night, 
when deep sleep falleth upon men, fear came upon me, and trembling, 
which made all my bones to shake. Then a spirit passed before my 
face ; the hair of my flesh stood up : it stood still ; but I could not dis- 
cern the form thereof; an image was before mine eyes , there was 
silence ; and I heard a voice saying, Shall mortal man be more just than 

* Ye subterranean gods, whose awful sway 
The gliding ghosts and silent shades obey : 
O Chaos, hear ! and Phlegethon profound ! 
Whose solemn empire stretches wide around I 
Give me, ye great tremendous powers ! to tell 
Of scenes and wonders in the depths of hell ; 
Give me your mighty secrets to display, 
From those black realms of darkness to the day. pitt. 

Obscure they went ; through dreary shades, that led 

Along the waste dominions of the dead ; 

As wander travellers in woods by night, 

By the moon's doubtful and malignant ijghtt bUydf^ 



S'2 SUBLIMITY IX OBJECTS:. [LECT. I If. 

God V s * Job. iv. 15. No ideas, it is plain, are so sublime as those 
taken from the Supreme Being; the most unknown, but the greatest of ail 
objects ; the infinity of whose nature, and the eternity of whose duration, 
joined with the omnipotence of his power, though they surpass our con- 
ceptions, yet exalt them to the highest. In general, all objects that are 
greatly raised above us, or far removed from us, either in space or in 
time, are apt to strike us as great. Our viewing them as through the 
mist of distance or antiquity, is favourable to the impressions of their sub- 
limity. 

As obscurity, so disorder too, is very compatible with grandeur ; nay 
frequently heightens it. Few things that are strictly regular and metho- 
dical appear sublime. We see the limits on every side ; we feel our- 
selves confined ; there is no room for the mind's exerting any great effort. 
Exact proportion of parts, though it enters often into the beautiful, is 
much disregarded in the sublime. A great mass of rocks, thrown to- 
gether by the hand of nature with wildness and confusion, strike the mind 
with more grandeur than if they had been adjusted to one another with 
the most accurate symmetry. 

In the feeble attempts which human art can make towards producing 
grand objects (feeble, I mean in comparison with the powers of nature,) 
greatness of dimensions always constitutes a principal part. No pile of 
building can convey any idea of sublimity, unless it be ample and lofty. 
There is too in architecture what is called greatness of manner ; which 
seems chiefly to arise from presenting the object to us in one full point 
of view ; so that it shall make its impression whole, entire, and undivided, 
upon the mind. A Gothic cathedral raises ideas of grandeur in our minds, 
by its size, its height, its awful obscurity, its strength, its antiquity, and 
its durability. 

There still remains to be mentioned one class of sublime objects, which 
may be called the moral, or sentimental sublime ; arising from certain ex- 
ertions of the human mind ; from certain affections, and actions, of our 
fellow-creatures. These will be found to be all, or chiefly, of that class 
which comes under the name of magnanimity, or heroism ; and they pro- 
duce an effect extremely similar to what is produced by the view of 
grand objects in nature ; filling the mind with admiration, and elevating 
it above itself. A noted instance of this, quoted by all the French critics, 
is the celebrated Qu'z7 mourut of Corneille, in the tragedy of Horace. 
In the famous combat betwixt the Horatii and the Curiatii, the old Hora- 
tius, being informed that two of his sons are slain, and that the third had 
betaken himself to flight, at first will not believe the report ; but being 
thoroughly assured of the fact, is fired with all the sentiments of high 
honour and indignation at this supposed unworthy behaviour of his survi- 
ving son. He is reminded, that his son stood alone against three, and 

* The picture which Lucretius has drawn of the dominion of superstition over man- 
kind, representing it as a portentous spectre showing its head from the clouds, and 
dismaying the whole human race with its countenance, together with the magnani* 
mity of Epicurus in raising himself up against it, carries all the grandeur of a sublime, 
obscure, and awful image. 

Humana ante oculos fosde cum vita jaceret 

In terris, oppressa gravi sub religione, 

Quae caput cosli regionibus ostendebat, 

J lorribili super aspectu mortalibus instans. 

Prknum Graius homo mortales tollere contra 

V.?\ nr*uV- aUSUS— — — — « Tjjv. >, 



LECT. Ilf.j SUBLIMITY LN OBJECTS. , SB 

asked what he would have had him to have done ? " To have died," he 
answers. In the same manner Porus, taken prisoner by Alexander, after 
a gallant defence, and asked in what manner he would be treated ? an- 
swering, " Like a king ;" and Caesar chiding the pilot who was afraid to 
set out with him in a storm, " Quid times ? Cassarem vehis ;" are good 
instances of this sentimental sublime. Wherever, in some critical and 
high situation, we behold a man uncommonly intrepid, and resting upon 
himself ; superior to passion and to fear ; animated by some great prin- 
ciple to the contempt of popular opinion, of selfish interest, of dangers, 
or of death ; there we are struck with a sense of the sublime.* 

High virtue is the most natural and fertile source of this moral sublimity. 
However, on some occasions, where virtue either has no place, or is but 
imperfectly displayed, yet if extraordinary vigour and force of mind be 
discovered, we are not insensible to a degree of grandeur in the charac- 
ter ; and from the splendid conqueror, or the daring conspirator whom 
we are far from approving, we cannot withhold our admiration.! 

I have now enumerated a variety of instances, both in inanimate objects 
and in human life, wherein the sublime appears. In all these instances 
the emotion raised in us is of the same kind, although the objects that 
produce the emotion be of widely different kinds. A question next arises* 
whether we are able to discover some one fundamental quality in which 
all these different objects agree, and which is the cause of their producing 
an emotion of the same nature in our minds ? Various hypotheses have 
been formed concerning this ; but, as far as appears to me, hitherto un- 
satisfactory. Some have imagined that amplitude, or great extent, joined 
with simplicity, is either immediately, or remotely, the fundamental 

* The sublime, in natural and in moral objects, is brought before us in one view, 
and compared together, in the following beautiful passage of Akenside's Pleasures 
of the Imagination. 

Look then abroad through nature, to the range 

Of planets, suns, and adamantine spheres, 

Wheeling, unshaken, thro' the void immense; 

And speak, O man ! does this capacious scene, 

With half that kindling majesty, dilate 

Thy strong conception, as when Brutus rose, 

Refulgent, from the stroke of Caesar's fate, 

Amid the crowd of patriots ; and his arm 

Aloft extending, like eternal Jove, 

When guilt brings down the thunder, call'd aloud 

On Tully's name, and shook his crimson steel. 

And bade the father of his country bail ! 

For, lo ! the tyrant prostrate on the dust ; 

And Rome again is free. Book I. 

r t SiKus Raiicus has studied to give an august idea of Hannibal, by representing 
him as surrounded with all his victories, in the place of guards. One who formed 
a design of assassinating him in the midst of a feast, is thus addressed : 

Fallit te, mensas inter quod credis intermem; 

Tot bellis queesita viro, tot csedibus, armat 

Majestas Eeterna ducem. Si admoveris ora 

Cannas, et Trebiam ante oculos, Trasymenaque busta 

Et Pauli stare ingentem miraberis umbram. 
A thought somewhat of the same nature occurs in a French author, " II se cache ; 
mais sa reputation ledecouvre ; II marche sans suite et sans equinpage j mais chacun) 
dans son esprit, le metsur un char de triomphe, On compte, en le voiant, les enemis 
qu'il a vaincus, non pas les serviteurs qui le suivent Tout seul qu'il est, on se figure, 
autour de lui, ses vertus, et ses victoires, que 1'accompagnent. Moins il est superbe' 
plus il devient venerable." Oraison Funebre de M. de Turenne, par M. Flechier , 
Both these passages are splendid, rather than sublime. In the first, there is a wan*' 
*f justness in the thought : in the second, of simplicity in the expression. 



34 SUBLIMITY IN WRITING [LECX-HC 

quality of whatever is sublime ; but we have seen that amplitude is con- 
fined to one species of sublime objects, and cannot, without violent strain- 
ing, be applied to them all. The author of " A Philosophical Inquiry into 
♦he origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful," to whom we are 
indebted for several ingenious and original thoughts upon this subject, 
proposes a formal theory upon this foundation, that terror is the source 
of the sublime, and that no objects have this character, but such as pro- 
duce impressions of pain and danger. It is indeed true, that many tec- 
rible objects are highly sublime ; and that grandeur does not refuse an 
alliance with the idea of danger. But though this is very properly illus- 
trated by the author (many of whose sentiments on that head 1 have adopt- 
ed) yet he seems to stretch his theory too far, when he represents the 
sublime as consisting wholly in modes of danger, or of pain. For the pro- 
per sensation of sublimity appears to be very distinguishable from the 
sensation of either of these ; and on several occasions, to be entirely 
separated from them. In many grand objects, there is no coincidence with 
♦error at all ; as in the magnificent prospect of wide extended plains, and 
of the starry firmament ; or in the moral dispositions and sentiments, 
which we view with high admiration ; and in many painful and terrible 
objects also, it is clear, there is no sort of grandeur. The amputation of a 
limb, or the bite of a snake, are exceedingly terrible ; but are destitute 
of all claim whatever to sublimity. I am inclined to think, that mighty 
force or power, whether accompanied with terror or not, whether em- 
ployed in protecting, or in alarming us, has a better title, than any thing 
that has yet been mentioned, to be the fundamental quality of the sub- 
lime ; as after the review which we have taken, there does not occur to 
me any sublime object, into the idea of which, power, strength, and 
force, either enter not directly, or are not, at least, intimately associated 
with the idea by leading our thoughts to some astonishing power, as 
concerned in the production of the object. However, I do not insist 
upon this as sufficient to found a general theory : it is enough, now to 
have given this view of the nature and different kinds of sublime ob- 
jects ; by which I hope to have laid a proper foundation for discussing, 
with greater accuracy, the sublime in writing and composition. 



LECTURE IV 



THE SUBLIME IN WRITING. 

Having treated of grandeur or sublimity in external objects, the 
way seems now to be cleared, for treating, with more advantage, of the 
description of such objects ; or, of what is called the sublime in writing. 
Though I may appear to enter early on the consideration of this subject ; 
yet, as the sublime is a species of writing which depends less than any 
other on the artificial embellishments of rhetoric, it may be examined 
with as much propriety here, as in any subsequent part of the lectures. 

-Many critical terms have unfortunately been employed in a sense too 



LECT. IV.] SUBLIMITY IN WRITING §g 

loose and vague ; none more go, than that of the sublime. Every one £s 
acquainted with the character of Caesar's Commentaries, and of the style 
in which they are written ; a style, remarkably pure, simple, and elegant ; 
but the most remote from the sublime, of any of the classical authors. 
Yet this author has a German critic, Johannes Gulielmus Bergerus, who 
wrote no longer ago than the year 1720, pitched upon as the perfect mo- 
del of the sublime, and has composed a quarto volume, entitled De natn- 
rali Pukhritudine Orationis ; the express intention of which is to show, 
that Caesar's Commentaries contain the most complete exemplification of 
all Longinus's rules relating to sublime writing. This I mention as a 
strong proof of the confused ideas which have j r vailed concerning this 
subject. The true sense of sublime writing, undoubtedly, is such a de 
scription of objects, or exhibition of sentiments, which are in themselves 
of a sublime nature, as shall give us strong impressions of them. But 
there is another very indefinite, and therefore very improper, sense, 
which has been too often put upon it ; when it is applied to signify any re- 
markable and distinguishing excellency of composition : whether it raise 
in us the ideas of grandeur, or those of gentleness, elegance, or any 
other sort of beauty. In this sense, Caesar's Commentaries may indeed be 
termed sublime, and so may many sonnets, pastorals, and love elegies, as 
well as Homer's Iliad. But this evidently confounds the use of words, 
and marks no one species, or character, of composition whatever. 

I am sorry to be obliged to observe, that the sublime is tor>often used 
in this last and improper sense, by the celebrated critic Longinus, in his 
treatise on this subject. He sets out, indeed, with describing it in itsjust 
and proper meaning ; as something that elevates the mind above itself, 
and fills it with high conceptions, and a noble pride. But from this view 
ef it he frequently departs ; and substitutes in the place of it, whatever, 
in any strain of composition, pleases highly. Thus, many of the passages 
which he produces as instances of the sublime, are merely elegant, with- 
out having the most distant relation to proper sublimity ; witness Sappho's 
famous ode, on which he descants at considerable length. He points out 
five sources of the sublime. The first is boldness or grandeur in the 
thoughts ; the second is, the pathetic ; the third, the proper application 
of figures ; the fourth, the use of tropes and beautiful expressions ; the 
fifth, musical structure and arrangement of words. This is the plan of 
one who was writing a treatise of rhetoric, or of the beauties of writing in 
general ; not of the sublime in particular. For of these five heads, only 
the two first have any relation to the sublime ; boldness and gran- 
deur in the thoughts, and in some instances, the pathetic, or strong exer- 
tions of passion ; the other three, tropes, figures, and musical arrange^ 
ments, have no more relation to the sublime, than to other kinds of good 
writing ; perhaps less to the sublime, than to any other species what- 
ever ; because it requires less the assistance of ornament. From this it 
appears, that clear and precise ideas on this head are not to be expected 
from that writer. I would not, however, be understood, as if I meant, by 
this censure, to represent his treatise as of small value. I know no critic* 
ancient or modern, that discovers a more lively relish of the beauties of 
fine writing, than Longinus ; and he has also the merit of being himself 
an excellent, and, in several passnges, a truly sublime, writer. But as 
his work has been generally considered as a standard on this subject, it 
was incumbent on me to give my opinion concerning the benefit to be de- 
rived from it. II deserves to be consulted, not so much for. distinct i$, 



36 SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. [LEGS'. IV. 

struction concerning the sublime, as for excellent general ideas concern ■ 
ing beauty in writing. 

I return now to the proper and natural idea of the sublime in compo- 
sition. The foundation of it must always be laid in the nature of the 
object described. Unless it be such an object as, if presented to our 
eyes, if exhibited to us in reality, would raise ideas of that elevating, that 
awful, and magnificent kind, which we call sublime ; the description, 
however finely drawn, is not entitled to come under this class. This 
excludes all objects that are merely beautiful, gay, or elegant. In the 
next place, the object must not only, in itself, be sublime, hut it must be 
set before us in sflch a light as is most proper to give us a clear and full 
impression of it ; it must be described with strength, with conciseness, 
and simplicity. This depends principally, upon the lively impression 
which the poet, or orator, has of the object which he exhibits ; and 
upon his being deeply affected, and warmed, by the sublime idea which 
he would convey. If his own feeling be languid, he can never inspire 
us with any strong emotion. Instances, which are extremely necessary 
on this subject, will clearly show the importance of all those requisites 
which I have just now mentioned. 

It is, generally speaking, among the most ancient authors, that we are 
to look for the most striking instances of the sublime. I am inclined to 
think that the early ages of the world, and the rude unimproved state of 
society, are peculiarly favourable to the strong emotions of sublimity, 
The genius of men is then much turned to admiration and astonishment. 
Meeting with many objects, to them new and strange, their imagination 
is kept glowing, and their passions are often raised to the utmost. They 
think and express themselves boldly, and without restraint. In the pro- 
gress of society, the genius and manners of men undergo a change more 
favourable to accuracy, than to strength or sublimity. 

Of all writings, ancient or modern, the Sacred Scriptures afford us 
the highest instances of the sublime. The descriptions of the Deity, 
in them, are wonderfully noble ; both from the grandeur of the object, 
and the manner of representing it. What an assemblage, for instance, 
of awful and sublime ideas is presented to us, in that passage of the 
xviiith Psalm, where an appearance of the Almighty is described ? " In 
my distress I called upon the Lord, he heard my voice out of his temple, 
and my cry came before him. Then, the earth shook and trembled ; 
the foundations also of the hills were moved ; because he was wroth. 
He bowed the heavens, and came down, and darkness was under his 
feet ; and he did ride upon a cherub, and did fly ; yea, he did fly upon 
the wings of the wind. He made darkness his secret place ; his pavi- 
lion round about him were dark waters, and thick clouds of the sky.'" 
Here, agreeably to the principles established in the last lecture, we see 
with what propriety and success the circumstances of darkness and ter- 
ror are applied for heightening the sublime. So, also, the prophet Ha- 
bakkuk, in a similar passage : " He stood and measured the earth ; he 
beheld, and drove asunder the nations. The everlasting mountains 
were scattered ; the perpetual hills did bow ; his ways are everlasting. 
The mountains saw thee ; and they trembled. The overflowing of the 
water passed by. The deep uttered his voice, and lifted up his hands 
on high." 

The noted instance given by Longinus, from Moses, " God said, Let 
there be light, and there was light j" is not liable to the censure which I 



I.ECT.IV.] SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. ^ 

passed on some of his instances, of being foreign to the subject. It be- 
longs to the true sublime ; and the sublimity of it arises from the strong 
conception it gives of an exertion of power, producing its effect with the 
utmost speed and facility. A thought of the same kind is magnificently 
amplified in the following passage of Isaiah : (chap. xliy. 24. 27. 28.) 
" Thus saith the Lord, thy Redeemer, and he that formed thee from the 
womb ; I am the Lord that maketh all things, that stretcheth forth the 
heavens alone, that spreadeth abroad the earth by myself— that saith to 
the deep, Be dry, and 1 will dry up thy rivers ; that saith of Cyrus, He 
is my shepherd, and shall perform all my pleasure; even, saying to 
Jerusalem, Thou shalt be built ; and to the temple, Thy foundation shalt 
be laid." There is a passage in the Psalms, which deserves to be men- 
tioned under this head ; " God," says the Psalmist "stilleth the noise of 
the seas, the noise of their waves, and the tumults of the people." The 
joining together two such grand objects, as the raging of the waters, and 
the tumults of the people, between which there is so much resemblance 
as to form a very natural association in the fancy, and the representing 
them both as subject, at one moment, to the command of God, produces 
a noble effect. 

Homer is a poet, who, in all ages, and by all critics, has been greatly 
admired for sublimity ; and he owes much of his grandeur to that native 
and unaffected simplicity which characterizes his manner. His descrip- 
tions of hosts engaging ; the animation, the fire, and rapidity, which he 
throws into his battles, present to every reader of the Iliad frequent 
instances of sublime writing. His introduction of the gods, tends often 
to heighten, in a high degree, the majesty of his warlike scenes. — 
Hence Longinus bestows such high and just commendations on that 
passage, in the xvth book of the Iliad, where Neptune, when preparing 
to issue forth into the engagement, is described as shaking the moun- 
tains with his steps, and driving his chariot along the ocean. Minerva, 
arming herself for fight in the fifth book ; and Apollo, in the xvth, lead- 
ing on the Trojans, and flashing terror with his iEgis on the face of the 
Greeks, are similar instances of great sublimity added to the description 
of battles, by the appearances of those celestial beings. In the xxth 
book, where all the gods take part in the engagement, according as they 
severally favour either the Grecians, or the Trojans, the poet seems to 
put forth one of the highest efforts, and the description rises into the 
most awful magnificence. All nature is represented as in commotion. 
Jupiter thunders in the heavens ; Neptune strikes the earth with his 
trident ; the ships, the city, and the mountains shake ; the earth trem- 
bles to its centre ; Pluto starts from his throne, in dread, lest the secrets 
of the infernal region should be laid open to the view of mortals, The 
passage is worthy of being inserted. 

Aoto§ CTrei ^ccsQ* Q/ut\ov 'Oxv/unici »\v8ov ov/p^v, 
Ave /' 'Ap»g ivtgtoQfv, i^t/uvn \ai\itni tiros, — 

C £2? Tt»? afAtyOTtglSS (AOMAgti figG/ 0TgVV0VTi$ } 

2yAt/2aAov, h P avrois t^tf*. pnyvvvro ^xgCiay 
Auvov <J' i$bv<r»<ri ircfrvi^ avfeZv re StZv <rs 
'T^oSiV rtiiTag hieQe noo-ufdcvv iTlVd^i 
Tctictv a7HSpz<ri»v, hpkonv t' euTruva. jcagnvae. 
riaWes <f ' itro-tiovro -noia 7roxu7rtJ"ecK.B "lfm. 
Kai KOfuQzh T§w«v te W5A/?, aa) vws? 'A^atZv. 
"ES'SiiTiv (T vir'tnefitv ava.% htpasv, 'AtfuiViuc, 
Aiifa? <T* %k fl^ove a\ro xai ttt^r u» oi i/VsgS; 



a8 SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. [LEC T. IV 

Taiav avappngui TJoo-zifauv hos-i^Brev, 

Torero? ag*. ktvttos w|T0 6«wV sgftf; ^uviovrav.* 

Iliad xx. 47, &c. 

The works of Ossian (as I have elsewhere shown) abound with exam- 
ples of the sublime. The subjects of that author, and the manner in 
which he writes, are particularly favourable to it. He possesses all the 
plain and venerable manner of the ancient times. He deals in no su- 
perfluous or gaudy ornaments ; but throws forth his images with a rapid 
conciseness, which enables them to strike the mind with the greatest 
force. Among poets of more polished times we are to look for the 
graces of correct writing, for just proportion of parts, and skilfully 
conducted narration. In the midst of smiling scenery and pleasurable 
themes, the gay and the beautiful will appear, undoubtedly, to more 
advantage. But amidst the rude scenes of nature and of society, such 
as Ossian describes ; amidst rocks and torrents, and whirlwinds, and 
battles, dwells the sublime ; and naturally associates itself with that 
grave and solemn spirit which distinguishes the author of Fingal. " As 
autumn's dark storms pour from two echoing hills, so toward each other 
approached the heroes. As two dark streams from high rocks meet 
and mix, and roar on the plain ; loud, rough, and dark in battle, met 
LfOchlin and Inisfail : chief mixed his strokes with chief, and man with 
man. Steel clanging sounded on steel. Helmets are cleft on high ; 
blood bursts, and smokes around. As the troubled noise of the ocean 
when roll the waves on high ; as the tast peal of the thunder of heaven ; 
such is the noise of battle. The groan of the people spread over the 
hills. It was like the thunder of night, when the cloud bursts on Cona, 
and a thousand ghosts shriek at once on the hollow wind." Never 
were images of more awful sublimity employed to heighten the terror of 
battle. 

* But when the powers descending swell'd the fight, 
Then tumult rose, fierce rage, and pale affright; 
Now through the tremhling shores Minerva calls. 
And now she thunders from the Grecian walls. 
Mars, hov'ring o'er bis Troy, his terror shrouds 
In gloomy tempests and a night of clouds ; 
Now through each Trojan heart he fury pours, 
With voice divine, from IHon's topmost towers- 
Above, the Sire of Gods his thunder rolls, 
And peals on peals redoubled rend the poles; 
Beneath stern Neptune shakes the solid ground, 
The torests wave, the mountains nod around ; 
Through all her summits tremble Ida's woods, 
And from their sources boii her hundred floods, 
Troy"s turrets totter on the rocking plain, 
And the toss'd navies beat the heaving main. 
Deep in the dismal region of the dead, 
Th' infernal monarch rear'd his horrid head, 
Leapt from his throne, lest Neptune's arm should lay 
His dark dominions open to the day; 
And pour in light on Pluto's drear abodes, 
Abhorr'd by men, and dreadful ev'n to gods, 
Such wars the immortals wage; such horrors rend 
The world's vast concave, when the gods contend. Pope 



LECT.IV.] SUBLIMITY IN WRITING 39 

I have produced these instances, in order to demonstrate how essential 
conciseness and simplicity are to sublime writing. Simplicity I place 
in opposition to studied and profuse ornament ; and conciseness, to su- 
perfluous expression. The reason why a defect, either in conciseness 
or simplicity, is hurtful in a peculiar manner to the sublime, I shall endea- 
vour to explain. The emotion occasioned in the mind by some great or 
noble object, raises it considerably above its ordinary pitch. A sort of 
enthusiasm is produced, extremely agreeable while it lasts ; but from 
which the mind is tending every moment to fall down into its ordinary 
situation. Now, when an author has brought us, or is attempting to 
bring us, into this state ; if he multiplies words unnecessarily ; if he 
decks the sublime object which he presents to us, round and round, with 
glittering ornaments ; nay, if he throws in any one decoration that sinks 
in the least below the capital image, that moment he alters the key ; he 
relaxes the tension of the mind ; the strength of the feeling is emascu- 
lated, the beautiful may remain, but the sublime is gone. When Julius 
Caesar said to the pilot who was afraid to put to sea with him in a storm, 
*' Quid times ? Caesareni vehis ;" we are struck with the daring mag- 
nanimity of one relying with such confidence on his cause and his 
fortune. These few words convey every thing necessary to give us the 
impression full. Lucan resolved to amplify and adorn the thought, 
Observe how every time he twists it round, it departs farther from the 
sublime, till it ends at last in tumid declamation. 

Sperne minas, inquit, pelagi, ventoque furenti 

Trade sinus ; Italiam, si coelo auctore, recusas, 

Me, pete. Sola t bi causa haec est justa timoris 

Victorein non nosse tuum ; quern nuraina nunquam 

Destituunt ; de quo male tunc Fortuna merelur, 

Cum post vota venit. Medias perrumpe procellas 

Tutela secure ruea\ Coeli iste fretique 

Non puppis nostra labor est. Hanc Caesare pressaia 

A fluctu defendet onus : nam proderit undis 

Iste ratis ....Quid tanta strage paretur 

Ignoras? quaerit pelagi, coelique tumultu 

Quid praestet fortuna mihi.* Phars. V. olis, 

On account of the great importance of simplicity and conciseness, 
* conceive rhyme, in English verse, to be, if not inconsistent with the 

* But Caesar still superior to distress, 
Fearless, and confident of sure success, 
Thus to the pilot loud : — The seas despise, 
And the vain threat'ning of the noisy skies ; 
Though gods deny thee yon Ausoniats strand 
Yet go, I charge you, go, at my command, 
Thy ignorance alone can cause thy fears, 
Tbou know'st not what a freight thy vessel bears ; 
Thou know'st not I am he to whom 'tis given, 
Never to want the care of watchful heaven. 
Obedient fortune waits my humble thrall, 
And always ready comes before I call. 
Let winds, and seas, loud wars at freedom wage. 
And waste upon themselves their empty rage, 
A stronger, mightier daemon is thy friend, 
Thou, and thy bark, on Caesar's fate depend. 
Thou stand'st amaz'd to view this dreadful scent. 
And wonder'st what the gods and fortune mean : 
But artfully their bounties thus they raise, 
And from my danger arrogate new praise : 
Amidst the fears of death they bid me live, 
And still enhance what they are sure to give Howe 



40 SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. [LECT.H . 

sublime, at least very unfavourable to it. The constrained elegance of 
this kind of verse, and studied smoothness of the sounds, answering regu- 
larly to each other at the end of the line, though they be quite consis- 
tent with gentle emotions, yet weaken the native force of sublimity ; 
besides, that the superfluous words which the poet is often obliged to in- 
troduce in order to fill up the rhyme, tend farther to enfeeble it. Ho- 
mer's description of the nod of Jupiter, as shaking the heavens, has been 
admired in all ages, as highly sublime. Literally translated, it runs 
thus : '* He spoke, and bending his sable brows, gave the awful nod ; 
while he shook the celestial locks of his immortal head, all Olympus 
was shaken." Mr. Pope translates it thus : 

He spoke ; and awful bends his sable brows, 
Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod, 
The stamp of fate, and sanction of a god. 
High heaven with trembling the dread signal took, 
And all Olympus to its centre shook. 

The image is spread out, and attempted to be beautified ; but it is, in 
truth, weakened. The third line — " The stamp of fate, and sanction of 
a god," is merely expletive, and introduced for no other reason but to 
fill up the rhyme ; for it interrupts the description, and clogs the image. 
For the same reason, out of mere compliance with the rhyme, Jupiter 
is represented as shaking his locks before he gives the nod : — " Shakes 
his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod," which is trifling, and without 
meaning : whereas, in the original, the hair of his head shaken, is the 
effect of his nod, and makes a happy picturesque circumstance in the de- 
scription.* 

The boldness, freedom, and variety of our blank verse, is infinitely 
more favourable than rhyme to all kinds of sublime poetry. The full- 
est proof of this is afforded by Milton ; an author whose genius led him 
eminently to the sublime. The whole first and second books of Para- 
dise Lost, are continued instances of it. Take only, for an example, the 
following noted description of Satan, after his fall, appearing at the head 
of the infernal hosts : 



-He, above the rest 



In shape and gesture proudly eminent, 

Stood like a tower ; his form had not yet lost 

All her original brightness, nor appear'd 

Less than archangel ruin'd; and the excess 

Of glory obscur'd : As when the sun, new risen. 

Looks through the horizontal misty air, 

Shorn of his beams ; or, from behind the moon. 

In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds 

On half the nations, and with fear of change 

Perplexes monarchs. Darken'd so, yet shone 

Above them all th' Archangel. : 

Here concur a variety of sources of the sublime : the principal object 
eminently great ; a high superior nature, fallen indeed, but erecting 
itself against distress ; the grandeur of the principal object heightened, 
by associating it with so noble an idea as that of the sun suffering an 
eclipse ; this picture shaded with all those images of change and trouble, 
of darkness and terror, which coincide so finely with the subiime emotion ; 
and the whole expressed in a style and versification, easy, natural and 
simple, but magnificent. 

See Webb on the Beauties of Poetrv , 



1ECT. IV.] SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. 42 

I have spoken of simplicity and conciseness, as essential to sublime 
writing. In my general description of it^ I mentioned strength, as ano- 
ther necessary requisite. The strength of description arises, in a great 
measure, from a simple conciseness ; but it supposes also something 
more ; namely, a proper choice of circumstances in the description, so 
as to exhibit the object in its full and most striking point of view. For 
every object has several faces, so to speak, by which it may be presented 
to us according to the circumstances with which we surround it ; and it 
will appear eminently sublime, or not, in proportion as all these cir- 
cumstances are happily chosen, and of a sublime kind. Here lies the 
great art of the writer; and, indeed, the great difficulty of sublime de- 
scription. If the description be too general, and divested of circumstan- 
ces, the object appears in a faint light ; it makes a feeble impression, or 
no impression at all, on the reader. At the same time, if any trivial or 
improper circumstances are mingled, the whole is degraded. 

A storm or tempest, for instance, is a sublime object in nature. But, 
to render it sublime in description, it is not enough either to give us mere 
general expressions concerning the violence of the tempest, or to de- 
scribe its common vulgar effects, in overthrowing trees and houses. It 
must be painted with such circumstances as fill the mind with great and 
awful ideas. This is very happily done by Virgil, in the following pas- 
sage : 

Tpse Pater, media nimborum in nocte, corusca 

Fulmina molitur dextra ; quo maxima motu 

Terra tremit ; fugere ferae ; et mortaliacorda 

Per gente* humilis stravit pavor : Ille, flagranti 

Aut Atho, aut Rhodopen, aut alta Ceraunia telo 

Dejicit .* geor. I. 

Every circumstance in this noble description is the production of an 
imagination heated and astonished with the grandeur of the object. If 
there be any defect, it is in the words immediately following those I have 
quoted : " Ingeminant Austri, et densissimus irnber ;" where the transi- 
tion is made too hastily, I am afraid, from the preceding sublime images, 
to a thick shower, and the blowing of the south wind ; and shows how 
difficult it frequently is to descend with grace, without seeming to fall. 

The high importance of the rule which I have been now giving, con- 
cerning the proper choice of circumstances, when description is meant t© 
be sublime, seems to me not to have been sufficiently attended to. It 
has, however, such a foundation in nature, as renders the least deflexion 
from it fatal. When a writer is aiming at the beautiful only, his descrip- 
tions may have improprieties in them, and yet be beautiful still. Some 

* The father of the gods his glory shrouds, 
Involv'd in tempests, and a night of clouds ; 
And from the middle darkness flashing out, 
By fits he deals his fiery bolts about. 
Earth feels the motions of her angry God, 
Her entrails tremble, and her mountains nod ; 
And flying beasts in forests seek abode. 
Deep horror seizes every human breast ; 
Their pride is humbled, and their fears confest J 
While he, from high, his rolling thunders throws, 
And fires the mountains with repeated blows; 
The rocks are from their old foundations rent, 
The winds redouble, and the rains augment dryden. 



42 SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. [LECT. IV 

trivial, or misjudged circumstances, can be overlooked by the reader ; 
they make only the difference of more or less : the gay, or pleasing emo- 
tion, which he has raised subsists still. But the case is quite different 
with the sublime. There, one trifling circumstance, one mean idea, is 
sufficient to destroy the whole charm. This is owing to the nature of the 
emotion aimed at by sublime description, which admits of no mediocrity* 
and cannot subsist in a middle state ; but must either highly transport 
us, or, if unsuccessful in the execution, leave us greatly disgusted and 
displeased. We attempt to rise along with the writer ; the imagination 
is awakened, and put upon the stretch ; but it requires to be supported ; 
and if, in the midst of its efforts, you desert it unexpectedly, down it 
comes with a painful shock. When Milton, in his battle of the angels, 
describes them as tearing, up the mountains, and throwing them at one 
another : there are, in his description, as Mr. Addison has observed, no 
circumstances but what are properly sublime : 

From their foundations loos'ning to and fro, 
They pluck'd the seated hills, with all their load, 
Rocks, waters, woods ; and by the shaggy tops 
Uplifting, bore them in their hands. 

Whereas Claudian, in a fragment upon the wars of the giants, has con- 
trived to render this idea of their throwing the mountains, which is in 
itself so grand, burlesque, and ridiculous ; by this single circumstance, of 
one of his giants with the mountain Ida upon his shoulders, and a river 
which flowed from the mountain, running down along the giant's back, as 
he held it up in that posture. There is a description too in Virgil, which, 
I think, is censurable ; though more slightly in *his respect. It is that 
®f the burning mountain iEtna ; a subject certainly very proper to be 
worked up by a poet into a sublime description : 



-Horrificis justa tonat iEtna minis. 



Interdumque atram prorumpit ad a^thera nubem, 

Turbine fumantem piceo, et candente favilla ; 

Attollitque globos flammarum, et sidera lambit. 

Interdum scopulos, avulsaque viscera montis 

Erigit eructans, liquefactaque saxa sub auras 

Cum gemitu glomerat. fundoque exsestuat imo/ 3 m$. hi. 5*71. 

Here, after several magnificent images, the poet concludes with personi- 
fying the mountain under this figure, " eructans viscera cum gemitu," 
^elching up its bowels with a groan ; which, by likening the mountain 
to a sick or drunk person, degrades the majesty of the description. It is 
to no purpose to tell us, that the poet here alludes to the fable of the 
giant Enceladus lying under mount iEtna ; and that he supposes his mo- 
tions and tossings to have occasioned the fiery eruptions. He intended 
the description of a sublime object ; and the natural ideas, raised by a 
burning mountain, are infinitely more lofty, than the belchings of any gi- 

* The port capacious, and secure from wind, 
Is to the foot of thundering iEtna join'd. 
By turns a pitchy cloud she rolls on high, 
By turns hot embers from her entrails fly, 
And flakes of mounting flames that lick the sky. 
Oft from her bowels massy rocks are thrown, 
And shiver'd by the force come piece-meal down. 
Oft liquid lakes of burning sulphur flow, 

Fed from the fiery springs that boil below. dbyben. 

la this translation of Dryden's the debasing circumstance to which I object in 
the original, is?, with propriety, omitted. 



XECT. IV.] SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. 43 

ant, how huge soever. The debasing effect of the idea which is here 
presented, will appear in a stronger light, by seeing what figure it makes 
in a poem of Sir Richard Blackmore's, who, through a monstrous perver- 
sity of taste, had chosen this for the capital circumstance in his descrip- 
tion, and thereby (as Dr. Arbuthnot humorously observes, in his treatise 
on the Art of Sinking) had represented the mountain as in a fit of the 
cholic. 

iEtna, and all the burning mountains find 
Their kindled stores with inbred storms of wind 
Blown up to rage, and roaring out complain, 
As torn with inward gripes, and torturing pain ; 
Labouring, they cast their dreadful vomit round, 
And w-ith their melted bowels spread the ground. 

Such instances show how much the sublime depends upon a just se- 
lection of circumstances ; and with how great care every circumstance 
must be avoided, which by bordering in tiie least upon the mean, or 
even upon the gay or the trifling, alters the tone of the emotion. 

If it shall be now inquired, what are the proper sources of the sub- 
lime ? my answer is, that they are to be looked for every where in na- 
ture. It is not by hunting after tropes, and figures, and rhetorical assis- 
tances, that we can expect to produce it. No : it stands clear, for the 
most part, of these laboured refinements of art. It must come unsought, 
if it comes at all ; and be the natural offspring of a strong imagination. 

Est deus in nobis ; agitante calescimus ill©. 
Wherever a great and awful object is presented in nature, or a ve- 
ry magnanimous and exalted affection of the human mind is displayed ; 
thence, if you can catch the impression strongly, and exhibit it warm 
and glowing, you may draw the sublime. These are its only proper 
sources. In judging of any striking beauty in composition, whether it 
is, or is not, to be referred to this class, we must attend to the nature 
of the emotion which it raises ; and only, if it be of that elevating, 
solemn, and awful kind, which distinguishes this feeling, we can pro- 
nounce it sublime. 

From the account which I have given of the nature of the sub- 
lime, it clearly follows, that it is an emotion which can never be long 
protracted. The mind, by no force of genius, can be kept, for any 
considerable time, so far raised above its common tone ; but will, of 
course, relax into its ordinary situation. Neither are the abilities of 
any human writer sufficient to supply a continued run of unmixed sub- 
lime conceptions. The utmost we can expect is, that this fire of ima- 
gination should sometimes flash upon us like lightning from heaven, and 
then disappear. In Homer and Milton, this effulgence of genius breaks 
forth more frequently, and with greater lustre, than in most authors. 
Shakspeare also rises often into the true sublime. But no author what- 
ever is sublime throughout. Some, indeed, there are, who by a 
strength and dignity in their conceptions, apd a current of high ideas 
that runs through their whole composition, preserve the reader's 
mind always in a tone nearly allied to the sublime ; for which reason 
they may, in a limited sense, merit the name of continued sublime wri- 
ters ; and, in this class, we may justly place Demosthenes and Plato. 

As for what is called the sublime style, it is, for the most part, a very 
bad one ; and has no relation, whatever, to the real sublime. Persons 
are apt to imagine, that magnificent words, accumulated epithets, and 



44 SUBLIMITY IN WRITING. [LECT. IV. 

a certain swelling kind of expression, by rising above what is usual or 
vulgar, contributes to, or even forms, the sublime. Nothing can be 
more false. In all the instances of sublime writing, which I have given, 
nothing of this kind appears. " God said, let there be light, and there 
e< was light."' This is striking and sublime. But put it into what is 
commonly called the sublime style : " The sovereign arbiter of nature, 
" by (he potent energy of a single word, commanded the light to exist ;" 
and, as Boileau has well observed, the style indeed is raised, but the 
thought is fallen. In general, in all good writing, the sublime lies in the 
thought, not in the words ; and when the thought is truly noble, it will 
for the most part, clothe itself in a native dignity of language. The sub- 
lime, indeed, rejects mean, low, or trivial expressions ; but it is equally 
an enemy to such as are turgid. The main secret of being sublime, is 
to say great things in few and plain words. It will be found to hold, 
without exception, that the most sublime authors are the simplest in their 
style ; and wherever you find a writer, who effects a more than ordinary 
pomp and parade of words, and is always endeavouring to magnify his 
subject by epithets, there you may immediately suspect, that feeble in 
sentiment, he is studying to support himself by mere expression. 

The same unfavourable judgment we must pass on all that laboured 
apparatus with which some writers introduce a passage, or description, 
which they intend shall be sublime ; calling on their readers to attend, 
invoking their muse, or breaking forth into general, unmeaning exclama- 
tions, concerning the greatness, terribleness, or majesty of the object, 
which they are to describe. Mr. Addison, in his Campaign, has fallen 
into an error of this kind, when about to describe the battle of Blen- 
heim. 

But ! O my muse ! what numbers wilt thou find 
To sing the furious troops in battle join'd ? 
Methinks, I hear the drum's tumultuous sound, 
The victor's shouts, and dying groans, confound ; &c. 

Introductions of this kind, are a forced attempt in a writer, to spur up 
himself, and his reader, when he finds his imagination flagging in vigour. 
It is like taking artificial spirits in order to supply the want of such as 
are natural. By this observation, however, I do not mean to pass a gen- 
eral censure on Mr. Addison's Campaign, which, in several places, is 
far from wanting merit ; and in particular, the noted comparison of his 
hero to the angel who rides in the whirlwind and directs the storm, is a 
truly sublime image. 

The faults opposite to the sublime are chiefly two : the frigid, and the 
bombast. The frigid consists in degrading an object or sentiment, which 
is sublime in itself, by our mean conception of it ; or by our weak, 
low, and childish description of it. This betrays entire absence, or at 
least, great poverty of genius. Of this, there are abundance of exam- 
ples, and these commented upon with much humour, in the Treatise on 
the Art of Sinking, in Dean Swift's works ; the instances taken chiefly 
from Sir Richard Blackmore. One of these, I had occasion already 
to give in relation to mountiEtna, and it were needless to produce any 
more. The bombast lies, in forcing an ordinary or trivial object out of 
its rank, and endeavouring to raise it into the sublime ; or, in attempting 
to exalt a sublime object beyond ail natural and reasonable bounds. In- 
to this error, which is but too common, writers of genius may some- 
times fall by unluckily losing sight of the true point of the sublime. 



LECT.V.] BEAUTY. 45 

This is also called fustian, or rant. Shakspeare, a great but incorrect 
genius, is uot unexceptionable here. Dryden and Lee, in their trage- 
dies abound with it. 

Thus far of the Sublime, of which 1 have treated fully, because it is 
so capital an excellency in tine writing, and because clear and precise 
ideas on this head are, as far as know, not to be met with in critical 
writers. 

Before concluding this lecture, there is one observation which I choose 
to make at this time ; 1 shall make it once for all, and hope it will be af- 
terward remembered. It is with respect to the instances of faults, or 
rather blemishes and imperfections, which, as I have done in this lecture, 
I shall hereafter continue to take, when I can, from writers of reputa- 
tion. I have not the least intention thereby to disparage their character 
in the general. I shall have other occasions of doing equal justice to 
their beauties. But it is no reflection on any human performance, that 
it is not absolutely perfect. The task would be much easier for me, to 
collect instances of faults from bad writers. But they would draw no at- 
tention, when quoted from books which nobody reads. And I conceive, 
that the method which 1 follow, will contribute more to make the best 
authors be read with pleasure, when one properly distinguishes their 
beauties from their faults ; and is led to imitate and admire only what is 
worthy of imitation and admiration. 






LECTURE V. 



BEAUTY, AND OTHER PLEASURES OF TASTE. 

As sublimity constitutes a particular character of composition, and 
forms one of the highest excellencies of eloquence and of poetry, it was 
proper to treat of it at some length. It will not be necessary to discuss 
so particularly all the other pleasures that arise from taste, as some of 
them have less relation to our main subject. On beauty only I shall 
make several observations, both as the subject is curious, and as Attends 
to improve taste, and to discover the foundation of several of the graces 
of description and of poetry.* 

Beauty, next to sublimity, affords, beyond doubt, the highest pleasure 
to the imagination. The emotion which it raises, is very distinguishable 
from that of sublimity. It is of a calmer kind ; more gentle and soothing ; 
does not elevate the mind so much, but produces an agreeable serenity. 
Sublimity raises a feeling, too violent, as 1 showed, to be lasting ; the plea- 
sure arising from beauty admits of longer continuance. It extends also 
to a much greater variety of objects than sublimity ; to a variety indeed 
so great, that the feelings which beautiful objects produce, differ consid- 
erably, not in degree only, but also in kind, from one another. Hence, 
no word in the language is used in a more vague signification than beauty. 
It is applied to almost every external object that pleases the eye, or the 

" See Hutchinson's Inquiry concerning Beauty and Virtue. Gerard on Taste, 
chap. iii. Inquiry into the Origin of the Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful. Ele- 
ments of Criticism, chap. iii. Spectator, vol. vi. Essay on the Pleasures of Taste.. 



4(J BEAUTY. [LECT. V 

ear ; to a great number of the graces of writing ; to many dispositions of 
the mind : nay, to several objects of mere abstract science. We talk cur- 
rently of a beautiful tree or flower ; a beautiful poem ; a beautiful cha- 
racter ; and a beautiful theorem in mathematics. 

Hence we may easily perceive, that, among so great a variety of ob- 
jects, to find out some one quality in which they all agree, and which is 
the foundation of that agreeable sensation they all raise, must be a very 
difficult, if not. more probably, a vain attempt. Objects denominated 
beautiful, are so different, as to please, not in virtue of any one quality 
common to them all, but by means of several different principles in hu- 
KriD nature. The agreeable emotion which they all raise, is somewhat 
of the same nature ; and therefore, has the common name of beauty 
given to it ; but it is raised by different causes. 

Hypotheses, however, have been framed by ingenious men, for assign- 
ing the fundamental quality of beauty in all objects. In particular, uni- 
formity amidst variety, has been insisted on as this fundamental quality. 
For the beauty of many figures, I admit that this accounts in a satisfacto- 
ry manner. But when we endeavour to apply this principle to beautiful 
objects of some other kind, as to colour, for instance, or motion, we shall 
soon find that it has 410 place. And even in external figured objects it 
does not hold, that their beauty is in proportion to their mixture of va- 
riety with uniformity ; seeing many please us as highly beautiful, which 
have almost no variety at all, and others, which are various to a degree 
of intricacy. Laying systems of this kind, therefore, aside, what 1 now 
propose is, to give an enumeration of several of those classes of objects 
in which beauty most remarkably appears ; and to point out, as far as I 
can, the separate principles of beauty in each of them. 

Colour affords, perhaps, the simplest instance of beauty, and therefore 
the fittest to begin with. Here, neither variety, nor uniformity, nor any 
other principle that I know, can be assigned, as the foundation of beauty. 
We can refer it to no other cause but the structure of the eye, which de- 
termines us to receive certain modifications of the rays of light with more 
pleasure than others. And we see accordingly, that, as the organ of sen- 
sation varies in different persons, they have their different favourite co- 
lours. It is probable, that association of ideas has influence, in some 
cases, on the pleasure which we receivefrom colours. Green, for instance, 
may appear more beautiful, by being connected in our ideas with rural 
prospects and scenes ; white, with innocence ; blue, with the serenity 
of the sky. Independent of associations of this kind, all that we can fur- 
ther observe concerning colours is, that those chosen for beauty are, 
generally, delicate, rather than glaring. Such are those paintings with 
which nature hath ornamented some of her works, and which art strives 
in vain to imitate ; as the feathers of several kinds of birds, the leaves 
of flowers, and the fine variation of colours exhibited by the sky at the 
rising and setting of the sun. These present to us the highest instances 
of the beauty of colouring ; and have accordingly been the favourite 
subjects of poetical description in all countries. 

From colour we proceed to figure, which opens to us forms of beauty 
more complex and diversified. Regularity first occurs to be noticed as 
a source of beauty. By a regular figure, is meant, one which we per- 
ceive to be formed according to some certain rule, and not left arbitrary 
or loose, in the construction of its parts. Thus, a circle, a square, a 
triangle, or a hexagon, please the eye, by their regularity, as beautiful 



LECT. V.] BEAUTY. 47 

figures. We must not, however, conclude, that all figures please in pro- 
portion to their regularity ; or that regularity is the sole, or the chief, 
foundation of beauty in figure. On the contrary, a certain graceful varie- 
ty is found to be a ranch more powerful principle of beauty ; and is 
therefore studied a great deal more than regularity, in all works that 
are designed merely to please the eye. I am, indeed, inclined to thuik, 
that regularity appears beautiful to us, chiefly, if not only, on account 
of its susgesting the ideas of fitness, propriety, ane use, which have 
always a greater connexion with orderly and proportioned forms, than 
with those which appear not constructed according to any certain rule. 
It is clear, that nature, who is undoubtedly the most graceful artist, hath, 
in all her ornamental works, pursued variety with an apparent neglect of 
regularity. Cabinets, doors, and windows, are made after a regular form, 
in cubes and parallelograms, with an exact proportion of parts ; and by 
being so formed they please the eye : for this good reason, that, being 
works of use, they are, by such figures, the better suited to the ends for 
which they were designed. But plants, flowers, and leaves are full of 
variety and diversity. A straight canal is an insipid figure, in comparison 
of the meanders of rivers. Cones ain't! pyramids are beautiful ; but trees 
growing in their natural wildness, are infinitely more beautiful than when 
trimmed into pyramids and cones. The apartments of a house must be 
regular in their disposition, for the convenience of its inhabitants ; but 
a garden which is designed merely for beauty, would be exceedingly 
disgusting, if it had as much uniformity and order in its parts as a dwel- 
ling-house. 

Mr. Hogarth, in his Analysis of Beauty, has observed, that figures 
bounded by curve lines are, in general, more beautiful than those bound- 
ed by straight lines, and angles. He pitches upon two lines, on which, 
according to him, the beauty of figure principally depends ; and he has 
illustrated and supported his doctrine, by a surprising number of instan- 
ces. The one is the waving line, or a curve bending backwards and 
forwards, somewhat in the form of the letter S. This he calls the line 
of beauty ; and shows how often it is found in shells, floivers, and such 
other ornamental works of nature ; as is common also in the figures de- 
signed by painters and sculptors, for the purpose of decoration. The 
other line, which he calls the line of grace, is the former waving curve, 
twisted round some solid body. The curling worm of a common jack is 
one of the instances he gives of it. Twisted pillars, and twisted horns, 
also exhibit it. In all the instances which he mentions, variety plainly 
appears to be so material a principle of beauty, that he seems not to err 
much when he defines the art of drawing pleasing forms, to be the art 
of varying well. For the curve line, so much the favourite of painters, 
derives, according to him, its chief advantage, from its perpetual bending 
and variation from the stiff regularity of the straight line. 

Motion furnishes another source of beauty, distinct from figure. Mo- 
tion of itself is pleasing ; and bodies in motion are, " caeteris paribus," 
preferred to those in rest. It is, however, only gentle motion that be- 
longs to the beautiful ; for when it is very swift, or very forcible, such as 
that of a torrent, it partakes of the sublime. The motion of a bird gliding 
, through the air, is extremely beautiful; the swiftness with which 
lightning darts through the heavens, is magnificent and astonishing. 
And here, it is proper to observe, that the sensations of sublime and 
beautiful are not always distinguished by very distant boundaries : but 



43 BEAUTY. [LECT. V. 

are capable, in several instances, of approaching towards each other. 
Thus, a smooth running stream is one of the most beautiful objects in 
nature : as it swells gradually into a great river, the beautiful, by degrees, 
is lost in the sublime. A young tree is a beautiful object ; a spreading 
ancient oak, is a venerable and a grand one. The calmness of a fine morn- 
ing is beautiful ; the universal stillness of the evening is highly sublime. 
But to return to the beauty of mocion, it will be found, I think, to hold 
very generally, that motion in a straight line is not so beautiful as in an un- 
dulating waving direction ; and motion upwards is, commonly too, more 
agreeable than motion downwards. The easy curling motion of flame 
and smoke may be instanced, as an object singularly agreeable : and here 
Mr. Hogarth's waving line recurs upon us as a principle of beauty. That 
artist observes, very ingeniously, that all the common and necessary mo- 
tions for the business of life, are performed by men in straight or plain 
lines : but that all the graceful and ornamental movements are made in 
waving lines : an observation not unworthy of being attended to, by all 
who study the grace of gesture and action. 

Though colour, figure, and motion, be separate principles of beauty ; 
yet in many beautiful objects they all meet, and thereby render the beau- 
ty both greater, and more complex. Thus, in flowers, trees, animals, we 
are entertained at once with the delicacy of the colour, with the grace- 
fulness of the figure, and sometimes also with the motion of the object. 
Although each of these produce a separate agreeable seasation, yet they 
are of such a similar nature, as readily to mix and blend in one general 
perception of beauty, which we ascribe to the whole object as its cause : 
for beauty is always conceived by us, as something residing in the object 
which raises the pleasant sensation ; a sort of glory which dwells upon, 
and invests it. Perhaps the most complete assemblage of beautiful objects 
that can any where be found, is presented by a rich natural landscape, 
where there is a sufficient variety of objects ; fields in verdure, scatter- 
ed trees and flowers, running water, and animals grazing. If to these 
be joined, some of the productions of art, which suit such a scene ; as 
a bridge which arches over a river, smoke rising from cottages in the 
midst of trees, and the distant view of a fine building seen by the rising 
sun; we then enjoy, in the highest perfection, that gay, cheerful, and 
placid sensation which characterizes beauty. To have an eye and a taste 
formed for catching the peculiar beauties of such scenes as these, is a ne- 
cessary requisite for all who attempt poetical description. 

The beauty of the human countenance is more complex than any that 
we have yet considered. It includes the beauty of colour, arising from 
the delicate shades of the complexion, and the beauty of figure, arising 
from the lines which form the different features of the face. But the 
chief beauty of the countenance depends upon a mysterious expression, 
which it conveys of the qualities of the mind ; of good sense, or good 
humour ; of sprightliness, candour, benevolence, sensibility, or other 
amiable dispositions. How it comes to pass, that a certain conformation 
of features is connected in our idea with certain moral qualities ; whether 
we are taught by instinct, or by experience, to form this connexion, and 
to read the mind in the countenauce, belongs not to us now to inquire, nor 
is indeed easy to resolve. The fact is certain, and acknowledged, that 
what gives the human countenance its most distinguishing beauty, is 
what is called its expression ; or an image, which it is conceived to 
show of internal moral dispositions. 



LECT. V.J BEAUTY. ty 

This leads us to observe, that there are certain qualities of the mind 
which, whether expressed in the countenance or by words, or by ac- 
tions, always raise in us a feeling similar to that of beauty. There 
are two great classes of moral qualities ; one is of the high and the great 
virtues, which require extraordinary efforts, and turn upon dangers and 
sufferings ; as heroism, magnanimity, contempt of pleasures, and con- 
tempt of death. These, as I have observed in a former lecture, excite 
in the spectator an emotion of sublimity and grandeur. The other class 
is generally of the social virtues, arid such as are of a softer and gentler 
kind ; as compassion, mildness, friendship, and generosity. These raise 
in the beholder a sensation of pleasure, so much akin to that produced 
by beautiful external objects, that though of a more dignified nature, it 
may, without impropriety, be classed under the same head. 

A species of beauty, distinct from any I have yet mentioned, arises 
from design or art ; or in other words, from the perception of means be- 
ing adapted to an end ; or the parts of any thing being well fitted to an- 
swer the design of the whole. When, in considering the structure of a 
tree or a plant, we observe, how all the parts, the roots, the stem, the 
bark and the leaves, are suited to the growth and nutriment of the whole ; 
much more when we survey all the parts and members of a living animal j 
or when we examine any of the curious works of art ; such as a clock, 
a ship, or any nice machine ; the pleasure which we have in the survey 9 
is wholly founded on this sense of beauty. It is altogether different 
from the perception of beauty produced by colour, figure, variety, or any 
of the causes formerly mentioned. When I look at a watch, for instance, 
the case of it, if finely engraved, and of curious workmanship, strikes 
me as beautiful in the former sense ; bright colour, exquisite polish, 
figures finely raised and turned. But when I examine the construction, 
of the spring and the wheels, and praise the beauty of the internal ma- 
chinery, my pleasure then arises wholly from the view of that admirable 
art, with which so many various and complicated parts are made to 
unite for one purpose. 

This sense of beaut}', in fitness and design, has an extensive influence 
over many of our ideas. It is the foundation of the beauty which we 
discover in the proportion of doors, windows, arches, pillars, and all the 
orders of architecture. Let the ornaments of a building be ever so fine 
and elegant in themselves, yet if they interfere with this sense of fitness 
and design, they lose their beauty, and hurt the eye, like disgreeabie 
objects. Twisted columns, for instance, are undoubtedly ornamental ; 
but as they have an appearance of weakness, they always displease 
when they are made use of to support any part of a building that is 
massy, and that seems to require a more substantial prop. We cannot 
look upon any work whatever, without being led by a natural association 
of ideas, to think of its end and design, and of course to examine the 
propriety of its parts, in relation to this design, and end. When their 
propriety is clearly discerned, the work seems always to have some 
beauty ; but when there is a total want of propriety, it never fails of ap- 
pearing deformed. Our sense of fitness and design, therefore, is so pow- 
erful, and, holds so high a rank among our perceptions, as to regulate, in 
a great measure, our other ideas of beauty ; an observation which I the 
rather make, as it is of the utmost importance, that all who study com- 
position should carefully attend to it. For, in an epic poem, a history, 
an oration, or any work of genius, we always require, 41s we do in other 



,50 PLEASURES OF TASTE. [LECT. V. 

works, a fitness, or adjustment of means to the end which the author is 
supposed to have in view. Let his descriptions be ever so rich, or his 
figures ever so elegant, yet if they are out of place, if they are not pro- 
per parts of that whole, if they suit not the main design, they lose all 
their beauty ; nay, from beauties they are converted into deformities. 
Such power has our sense of fitness and congruity, to produce a total 
transformation of an object whose appearance otherwise would have 
been beautiful. 

After having mentioned so many various species of beauty, it now only 
remains to take notice of beauty as it is applied to writing or discourse ; 
a term commonly used in a sense altogether loose and undetermined. 
For it is applied to all that pleases, either in style or in sentiment, from 
whatever principle that pleasure flows ; and a beautiful poem or oration 
means, in common language, no other than a good one, or one well com- 
posed. In this sense, it is plain, the word is altogether indefinite, and 
points at no particular species or kind of beauty. There is, however, 
another sense, somewhat more definite, in which beauty of writing cha- 
racterizes a particular manner ; when it is used to signify a certain grace 
and amenity in the turn either of style or sentiment for which some au- 
thors have been peculiarly distinguished. In this sense, it denotes a 
manner neither remarkably sublime, nor vehemently passionate, nor 
uncommonly sparkling ; but such as raises in the reader an emotion of 
the gentle placid kind, similar to what is raised by the contemplation of 
beautiful objects in nature ; which neither lifts the mind very high, nor 
agitates it very much, but diffuses over the imagination an agreeable and 
pleasing serenity. Mr. Addison is a writer altogether of this character ; 
and is one of the most proper and precise examples that can be given 
of it. Fenelon, the author of the Adventures of Telemachus, may be 
given as another example. Virgil too, though very capable of rising on 
occasions into the sublime, yet, in his general manner, is distinguished 
by the character of beauty and grace, rather than of sublimity. Among 
orators, Cicero has more of the beautiful than Demosthenes, whose 
genius led him wholly towards vehemence and strength. 

This much it is sufficient to have said upon the subject of beauty. 
We have traced it through a variety of forms ; as next to sublimity, it 
is the most copious source of the pleasures of taste ; and as the con- 
sideration of the different appearances, and principles of beauty, tends 
to the improvement of taste in many subjects. 

But it is not only by appearing under the forms of sublime or beau- 
tiful, that objects delight the imagination. From several other princi- 
ples also, they derive their power of giving it pleasure. 

Novelty, for instance, has been mentioned by Mr. Addison, and by 
every writer on this subject. An object which has no merit to recom- 
mend it, except its being uncommon or new, by means of this quality 
alone, produces in tire mind a vivid and an agreeable emotion. Hence 
that passion of curiosity, which prevails so generally among mankind. 
Objects and ideas which have been long familiar, make too faint an im- 
pression to give an agreeable exercise to our faculties. New and strange 
objects rouse the mind from its dormant state, by giving it a quick and 
pleasing impulse. Hence in a great measure, the entertainment afford- 
ed us by fiction and romance. The emotion raised by novelty is of 
a more lively and pungent nature, than that produced by beauty ; but 
rm?ch shorter in its continuance* For if the object have in itself irq 



LECT.V.J IMITATION AND DESCRIPTION. •>! 

charms to hold our attention, the shining gloss thrown upon it by novelty 
soon wears off. 

Besides novelty, imitation is another source of pleasure to taste. 
This gives rise to what Mr. Addison terms the secondary pleasures of 
imagination ; which form, doubtless, a very extensive class. For all 
imitation affords some pleasure ; not only the imitation of beautiful or 
great objects, by recalling the original ideas of beauty or grandeur which 
such objects themselves exhibited ; but even objects which have nei- 
ther beauty nor grandeur, nay, some which are terrible or deformed, 
please us in a secondary or represented view. 

The pleasures of melody and harmony belong also to taste ; there is 
no agreeable sensation we receive either from beauty or sublimity, but 
what is capable of being heightened by the power of musical sound. 
Hence the delight of poetical numbers, and even of the more conceal- 
ed and looser measures of prose. Wit, humour, and ridicule likewise 
open a variety of pleasures to taste, quite distinct from any that we have 
yet considered. 

At present it is not necessary to pursue any further the subject of the 
pleasures of taste. I have opened some of the general principles ; it is 
time now to make the application to our chief subject. If the question 
be put, to what class of those pleasures of taste which I have enume- 
rated, that pleasure is to be referred, which we receive from poetry, 
eloquence, or fine writing ? My answer is, not to any one, but to them 
all. This singular advantage, writing and discourse possess, that they 
encompass so large and rich a field on all sides, and have power to ex- 
hibit, in great perfection, not a single set of objects only, but almost the 
whole of those which give pleasure to taste and imagination ; whether 
that pleasure arise from sublimity, from beauty in its different forms, from 
design and art, from moral sentiment, from novelty, from harmony, from 
wit, humour, and ridicule. To whichsoever of these the peculiar bent 
of a person's taste lies, from some writer or other, he has it always in his 
power to receive the gratification of it. 

Now this high power which eloquence and poetry possess, of supply- 
ing taste and imagination with such a wide circle of pleasures, they de- 
rive altogether from their having a greater capacity of imitation and 
description than is possessed by any other art. Of all the means which 
human ingenuity has contrived for recalling the images of real objects, 
and awakening, by representation, similar emotions to those which are 
raised by the original, none is so full and extensive as that which is ex- 
ecuted by words and writing. Through the assistance of this happy 
invention, there is nothing, either in the natural or moral world, but what 
can be represented and set before the mind, in colours very strong and 
lively. Hence it is usual among critical writers, to speak of discourse 
as the chief of all the imitative or mimetic arts ; they compare it with 
painting and with sculpture, and in many respects prefer it justly before 
them. 

This style was first introduced by Aristotle in his Poetics ; and, since 
his time, has acquired a general currency among modern authors. But 
as it is of consequence to introduce as much precision as possible into 
critical language, I must observe, that this manner of speaking is not 
accurate. Neither discourse in general, nor poetry in particular, can 
be called altogether imitative arts. We must distinguish betwixt imitation 
and description, which are ideas that should not be confounded. Imita- 
tion is performed by means of somewhat that has a natural likeness and 



52 IMITATION AND DESCRIPTION. [LECT.V. 

resemblance to the thing imitated, and of consequence is understood by 
all : such are statues and pictures. Description, again, is the raising in 
the mind the conception of an object by means of some arbitrary or in- 
stituted symbols, understood only by those who agree in the institution of 
them ; such are words and writing. Words have no natural resemblance 
to the ideas or objects which they are employed to signify ; but a statue 
or a picture has a natural likeness to the original. And therefore imita- 
tion and description differ considerably in their nature from each other. 

As far indeed, as a poet or a historian introduces into his work persons 
actually speaking ; and, by the words which he puts into their mouths, 
represents the discourse which they might be supposed to hold ; so far 
his art may more accurately be called imitative ; and this is the case in 
all dramatic composition. But, in narrative or descriptive works, it can 
with no propriety be called so. Who, for instance, would call Virgil's 
description of a tempest, in the first JEneid, an imitation of a storm ? If 
we heard of the imitation of a battle, we might naturally think of some 
mock fight, or representation of a battle on the stage, but would never 
apprehend, that it meant one of Homer's descriptions in the Iliad. I 
admit, at the same time, that imitation and description agree in their 
principal effect, of recalling, by external signs, the ideas of things which 
we do not see. But though in this they coincide, yet it should not be for- 
gotten, that the terms themselves are not synonymous ; that they import 
different means of effecting the same end ; and of course make different 
impressions on the mind.* 

Whether we consider poetry in particular, and discourse in general, 
as imitative or descriptive : it is evident, that their whole power, in re- 
calling the impressions of real objects, is derived from the significancy 
of words. As their excellency flows altogether from this source, we 
must, in order to make way for further inquiries, begin at this fountain- 
head. I shall therefore, in the next lecture, enter upon the considera- 
tion of language : of the origin, the progress, and construction of which 
I purpose to treat at some length., 

* Though in the execution of particular parts, poetry is certainly descriptive rathei' 
than imitative, yet there is a qualified sense in which poetry, in the general, may be 
termed an imitative art. The subject of the poet (as Dr. Gerard has shown in the 
appendix to his Essay on Taste) is intended to be an imitation, not of things really 
existing, but of the course of nature ; that is, a feigned representation of such events, 
or such scenes, as though they never had a being, yet might have existed ; and 
which, therefore, by their probability, bear a resemblance to nature. It was proba- 
bly in this sense that Aristotle termed* poetry a mimetic art. How far either the 
imitation or the description which poetry employs, is superior to the imitative pow- 
ers of painting and music, is well shown by Mr. Harris, in his treatise on music, 
painting and poetry. The chief advafitage which poetry, or discourse in general, 
enjoys, is that whereas, by the nature of his art, the painter is confined to the repre- 
sentation of a single moment, writing and discourse can trace a transaction through 
Us whole progress. That moment, indeed, which the painter pitches upon for the 
subject of his picture, he maybe said to exhibit with more advantage than the poet 
or the orator; inasmuch as he sets before us, in one view all the minute concur- 
rent circumstances of the event which happens in one individual point of time, as 
they appear in nature ; while discourse is obliged to exhibit them in succession, and 
by means of a detail, which is in danger of becoming tedious, in order to be clear; 
or, if not tedious, is in danger of being obscure. But to that point of time which 
he has chosen, the painter being entirely confined, he cannot exhibit various stages 
of the same action or event; and he is subject to this farther defect that he can only 
exhibit objects as they appear to the eye, and can very imperfectly delineate cha- 
racters and sentiments, which are the noblest subjects of imitation or description. 
The power of representing these with full advantage, gives a high superiority tn 
^course artd wmtifis, above all other imilative arts.. 



(53) 

LECTURE VI. 

RISE AND PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE. 

Having finished my observations on the pleasures of taste, which were 
meant to be introductory to the principal subject of these lectures, I now 
begin to treat of language ; which is the foundation of the whole power 
of eloquence. This will lead to a considerable discussion ; and there 
are few subjects belonging to polite literature, which more merit such 
a discussion. I shall first give a history of the rise and progress of lan- 
guage in several particulars, from its early to its more advanced periods ; 
which shall be followed by a similar history of the rise and progress of 
writing. I shall next give some account of the construction of language, 
or the principles of universal grammar ; and shall, lastly, apply these 
observations more particularly to the English tongue.* 

Language, in general, signifies the expression of our ideas by certain 
articulate sounds, which are used as the signs of those ideas. By articu- 
late sounds, are meant those modulations of simple voice or of sound 
emitted from the thorax, which are formed by means of the mouth and its 
several organs, the teeth, the tongue, the lips, and the palate. How far 
there is any natural connexion between the ideas of the mind and the 
sounds emitted, will appear from what I have afterward to offer. But 
as the natural connexion can upon any sj^stem, affect only a small part 
of the fabric of language ; the connexion between words and ideas may, 
in general, be considered as arbitrary and conventional, owing to the 
agreement of men among themselves ; the clear proof of which is, that 
different nations have different languages, or a different set of articulate 
sounds, which they have chosen for communicating their ideas. 

This artificial method of communicating thought, we now behold car- 
ried to the highest perfection. Language is become a vehicle by which 
the most delicate and refined emotions of one mind can be transmitted, 
or, if we may so speak, transfused into another. Not only are names giv- 
en to all objects around us, by which means an easy and speedy inter- 
course is carried on for providing the necessaries of life, but all the 
relations and differences among these objects are minutely marked, the 
invisible sentiments of the mind are described, the most abstract notions 
and conceptions are rendered intelligible ; and all the ideas which science 
can discover, or imagination create, are known by their proper names. 
Nay /language has been carried so far, as to be made an instrument of 
the most refined luxury. Not resting in mere perspicuity, we require orna- 
ment also ; not satisfied with having the conceptions of others made known 

* See Dr. Adam Smith's Dissertation on the Formation of Languages — Treatise 
on the Origin and Progress of Language, in 3 vols. — Harris's Hermes, or a Philoso- 
phical Inquiry concerning Language and Universal Grammar. — Essai sur 1'Origine 
des Connoissances Humaines, par l'Abbe Condillac. — Principes de Grammaire, par 
Marsais. — Grammaire General et Raisonnee. — Traite de la Formation Mechanique 
des Langues, par le President de Brosses. — Discours sur Tlnegalite parmi les Hom- 
ines, par Rousseau. — Grammaire Generale, par Beauzee. — Principes de la Traduc- 
tion, par Batteux. — Warburton's Divine Legation of Moses, vol. iii. — Sanctii 
Minerva, cum notis Perizonil.— Les Vrais Principes de le Langue Francoise. par l'Ab= 
be Crira;-' 1 



54 RISE AND PROGRESS [LECT. VI. 

to us, we make a farther demand, to have them so decked and adorned as 
to entertain our fancy, and this demand, it is found very possible to gra- 
tify. In this state, we now find language. In this state, it has been found 
among many nations for some thousand years. The object is become 
familiar ; and, like the expanse of the firmament, and other great objects, 
which we are accustomed to behold, we behold it without wonder. 

But carry your thoughts back to the first dawn of language among men. 
Reflect upon the feeble beginnings from which it must have arisen, and 
upon the many and great obstacles which it must have encountered in its 
progress ; and you will find reason for the highest astonishment, on view- 
ing the height which it has now attained. We admire several of the 
inventions of art ; we plume ourselves on some discoveries which have 
been made in latter ages, serving to advance knowledge, and to render 
life comfortable ; we speak of them as the boast of human reason. 
But certainly no invention is entitled to any such degree of admiration as 
that of language ; which, too, must have been the product of the first and 
rudest ages, if, indeed, it can be considered as a human invention at all. 

Think of the circumstances of mankind when language began to be 
formed. They were a wandering scattered race ; no society among 
them except families ; and the family society too very imperfect, as 
their method of living by hunting or pasturage must have separated them 
frequently from one another. In this situation, when so much divided* 
and their intercourse so rare, how could anyone set of sounds, or words, 
be generally agreed on as the signs of their ideas ? Supposing that a fe-^v, 
whom chance or necessity threw together, agreed by some means upon 
certain signs, yet by what authority could these be propagated among 
other tribes or families, so as to spread and grow up into a language ? 
One would think, that in order to any language fixing and extending itself, 
men must have been previously gathered together in considerable num- 
bers ; society must have been already far advanced ; and yet, on the 
other hand there seems to have been an absolute necessity for speech, 
previous to the formation of society. For, by what bond could any mul- 
titude of men be kept together, or be made to join in the prosecution of 
any common interest, until once, by the intervention of speech, they could 
communicate their wants and intentions to one another ? So that, either 
how society could form itself, previously to language, or how words 
could rise into a language, previously to society formed, seem to be 
points attended with equal difficulty. And when we consider farther, that 
curious analogy which prevails in the construction of almost all lan- 
guages, and that deep and subtle logic on which they are founded, diffi- 
culties increase so much upon us, on all hands, that there seems to be no 
small reason for referring the first origin of all language to divine teach- 
ing or inspiration. 

But supposing language to have a divine original, we cannot, however, 
suppose, that a perfect system of it was all at once given to man. It is 
much more natural to think that God taught our first parents only such 
language as suited their present occasions ; leaving them, as he did in 
other things, to enlarge and improve it as their future necessities should 
require. Consequently, those first rudiments of speech must have been 
poor and narrow ; and we are at full liberty to inquire in what manner, 
and by what steps, language advanced to the state in which we now find 
it. The history which 1 am to give of this progress, will suggest several 
things, both curious in themselves, and useful in our future disquisitions 



LEC'T. VI.j QF LANGUAGE- S£ 

If we should suppose a period before any words were invented or 
known, it is clear, that men could have no other method of communicat- 
ing to others what they felt, than by the cries of passion, accompanied 
with such motions and gestures as were farther expressive of passion. 
For these are the only signs which nature teaches all men, and which 
are understood by all. One who saw another going into some place where 
he himself had been frightened, or exposed to danger, and who sought to 
warn his neighbour of the danger, could contrive no other way of doing 
so than by uttering those cries, and making those gestures, which are the 
signs of fear : just as two men, at this day, would endeavour to make 
themselves be understood by each other, who should be thrown together 
on a desolate island, ignorant of each other's language. Those excla- 
mations, therefore, which by grammarians are called interjections, utter- 
ed in a strong and passionate manner, were, beyond doubt, the first ele- 
ments or beginnings of speech. 

When more enlarged communications became necessary, and names be- 
gan to be assigned to objects, in what manner can we suppose men to 
have proceeded in this assignation of names, or invention of words ! Un- 
doubtedly, by imitating, as much as they could, the nature of the object 
which they named, by the sound of the name which they gave to it. As 
a painter who would represent grass, must employ a green colour ; so in 
the beginnings of language, one giving a name to any thing harsh or bois- 
terous, would of course employ a harsh or boisterous sound . He could not 
do otherwise, if he meant to excite in the hearer the idea of that thing 
which he sought to name. To suppose words invented, or names given 
to things, in a manner, purely arbitrary, without any ground or reason, is 
to suppose an effect without a cause. There must have always been some 
motive which led to the assignation of one name rather than another ; 
and we can conceive no motive which would more universally operate up- 
on men in their first efforts towards language, than a desire to paint by 
speech, the objects which they named, in a manner more orless^complete, 
according as the vocal organs had it in their power to affect thi^tmitation. 

Wherever objects were to be named, in which sound, noise, or motion 
were concerned, the imitation by words was abundantly obvious. Nothing 
was more natural, than to imitate, by the sound of the voice, the quality 
of the sound or noise which any external object made ; and to form its 
name accordingly. Thus, in all languages, we find a multitude of words 
that are evidently constructed upon this principle. A certain bird is 
termed the the cuckoo, from the sound which it emits. When one sort of 
wind is said to whistle, and another to roar; when a serpent is said to 
hiss ; a fly to buzz, and falling timber to crash ; when a stream is said to 
flow, and hail to rattle ; the analogy between the word and the thing sig- 
nified is plainly discernible. 

In the names of objects which address the sight only, where neither 
noise nor motion are concerned, and still more in the terms appropriated 
to moral ideas, this analogy appears to fail. Many learned men, however, 
have been of opinion, that though in such cases, it becomes more ob- 
scure, yet it is not altogether lost ; but that throughout the radical words 
of all languages, there may be traced some degree of correspondence 
with the object signified. With regard to moral and intellectual ideas, 
they remark, that in every language, the terms significant of them, are 
derived from the names of sensible objects to which they are conceived 



5Q RISK AND PROGRESS [LECT.VL 

to be analogous ; and with regard to sensible objects pertaining merely to 
sight, they remark, that their most distinguishing qualities have certain 
radical sounds appropriated to the expression of them, in a great variety 
of languages. Stability, for instance, fluidity, hollowness, smoothness, 
gentleness, violence, &c. they imagine to be painted by the sound of cer- 
tain letters or syllables, which have some relation to those different states 
of visible objects, on account of an obscure resemblance which the or- 
gans of voice are capable of assuming to such external qualities. By 
this natural mechanism, they imagine all languages to have been at first 
constructed, and the roots of their capital words formed.* 

As far as this system is founded in truth, language appears to be not 
altogether arbitrary in its origin. Among the ancient Stoic and Platonic 
philosophers, it was a question much agitated, " Utrum nomina rerum 
sint natura, an impositione ? tpva-si j? fart ;" by which they meant, whether 
words were merely conventional symbols ; of the rise of which no ac- 
count could be given, except the pleasure of the first inventors of lan- 
guage ? or, whether there was some principle in nature that led to the 
assignation of particular names to particular objects ? and those of the 
Platonic school favoured the latter opinion.! 

This principle, however, of a natural relation between words and ob- 

* The author who has carried his speculations on this subject the farthest, is the 
President Des Brosses, in his " Traite de la Formation Mechanique des Langues." 
Some of the mdical letters or syllables which he supposes to carry this expressive 
power in most known languages are, St, to signify stability or rest ; Fl, to denote 
fluency; CI, a gentle descent : R, what relates to rapid motion; C, to cavity or 
hollowness, &.c. A century before his time, Dr. Waliis, in his Grammar of the Eng- 
lish Language, had taken notice of these significant roots, and represented it as a pe- 
culiar excellency of our tongue, that beyond all others, it expressed the nature of 
the objects which it named, by employing sounds sharper, softer, weaker, stronger, 
more obscure, or more stridulous, according as the idea which is to be suggested re- 
quires. He gives various examples. Thus, words, formed upon St, always denote 
firmness and strength, analogous, to the Latin s/o • as stand, stay, statf, stop, stout, 
steady, staj*-- stamp, staition, stately, &c. Words beginning with Str, intimate vio- 
lence, force and energy, analogous to the Greek fTgovvvpi ; as, strive, strength, strike, 
stripe, stress,strugg!e, stride, stretch,strip,&c. Thr,impliesforcible,motion: as, throw, 
throb, thrust, through, threaten, thraldom. Wr, obloquity or distortion ;. as, wry, 
w T rest, wreath, wrestle, wring, wrong, wrangle, wrath, wrack, &c. Sw, silent agita- 
tion, or lateral motion; as, sway, swing, swerve, sweep, swim. SI, a gentle fall 
or less observable motion ; as, slide, slip, sly, slit, slow, slack, sling. Sp, dissipa- 
tion or expansion ; as spread, sprout, sprinkle, split, spill, spring. Terminations in 
ash, indicate something acting nimbly and sharply ; as, crash, gash, rash, flash, lash, 
slash. Terminations in ush, something acting more obtrusely and dully ; as, crush, 
brush, hush, gush, blush. The learned author produces a great many more exam- 
ples of the same kind, which seem to leave no doubt, that the analogies of 3ound 
have had some influence on the formation of words. At the same time, in all spe- 
culations of this kind, there is so much room for fancy to operate, that they ought 
to be adopted with much caution in forming any general theory. 

t Vid. Plat, in Cratylp. " Nomina verbaque non posita fortuito, sed quadam viet 
ratione naturae facta esse, P. Nigidius in Grammaticis Commentariis docet ; rem sane 
in philosopbiaj dissertationibus celebrem. Jn earn rem multa argumenta dicit, cur 
videri possint, verba esse naturalia, magis quam arbitraria. Vos y iuiquit, cum dici- 
mus, motu quodam oris conveniente, cum ipsius verbi demonstratione utiinur,et labi- 
as sensim primores emovemus, ac spiritum atque animam porro versum, et ad eos 
quibus consermo cinamur intendimus. At contra cum diciraus Nos, neque profuso 
intentoque flatu vocis, neque projectis labiis pronunciamus; sed et spiritum et labi- 
as quasi intra nosinet ipsos coercemus. Hoc sit idem et in eo quod dicimus, lu, 
etego, etmihiet tibi. Nam sicuti cum adnuitnuset abnuimus, motus quodam illo vet 
capitis, vel oculorum, a natura rei quam significat, non abhorret, itaia his vocibus 
quasi gestus quidam oris et spiritus naturalis est. Eadem ratio est in Graacis quoque 
Vocibus quam esse in nvstris animadvertimus." A. Gellius,NocL Attic*., lib. x. cap. 4. 



LECT. "VXj Of LANGUAGE. 57 

jeets, can only be applied to language in its most simple and primitive 
state. Though in every tongue, some remains of it, as I have shown 
above, can be traced, it were utterly in vain to search for it throughout 
the whole construction of any modern language. As the multitude of 
terms, increase in every nation, and the immense field of language is filled 
up, words, by a thousand fanciful and irregular methods of derivation and 
composition, come to deviate widely from the primitive character of their 
roots, and to lose all analogy or resemblance in sound to the things signifi- 
ed. In this state we now find language. Words, as we now employ 
them, taken in the general, may be considered as symbols, not as imita- 
tions ; as arbitrary, or instituted, not natural signs of ideas. But there 
can be no doubt, 1 think, that language, the nearer we remount to its rise 
among men, will be found to partake more of a natural expression. As 
it could be originally formed on nothing but imitation, it would, in its 
primitive state, be more picturesque ; much more barren indeed, and 
narrow in the circle of its terms, than now ; but as far as it went, more 
expressive by sound of the thing signified. This, then, may be assumed 
as one character of the first state, or beginnings of language, among every 
savage tribe. 

A second character of language, in its early state, is drawn from the 
manner in which words were at first pronounced, or uttered, by men. 
Interjections, I showed, or passionate exclamations, were the first ele- 
ments of speech. Men laboured to communicate their feelings to one 
another, by those expressive cries and gestures which nature taught 
them. After words, or names of objects, began to be invented, this 
mode of speaking, by natural signs, could not be all at once disused. 
For language, in its infancy, must have been extremely barren ; and 
there certainly was a period among all rude nations, when conversation 
was carried on by very few words, intermixed with many exclamations 
and earnest gestures. The small stock of words which men as yet pos- 
sessed, rendered these helps absolutely necessary for explaining their 
conceptions; and rude, uncultivated men not having always at hand 
even the few words, which they knew, would naturally labour to make 
themselves understood, by varying their tones of voice, and accompany- 
ing their tones with the most significant gesticulations they could make. 
At this day, when persons attempt to speak in any language which they 
possess imperfectly, they have recourse to all these supplemental me- 
thods, in order to render themselves more intelligible. The plan, too, 
according to which I have shown, that language was originally construct- 
ed, upon resemblance or analogy, as far as was possible, to thethingsig- 
nified, would naturally lead men to utter their words with more empha- 
sis and force, as long as language was a sort of painting by means of 
sound. For all those reasons this may be assumed as a principle, that 
the pronunciation of the earliest languages was accompanied with more 
gesticulation, and with more and greater inflections of voice, than what 
we now use : there was more action in it ; and it was more upon a cry- 
ing or singing tone. 

To this manner of speaking, necessity first gave rise. But we must 
observe, that after this necessity had, in a great measure, ceased, by lan- 
guage becoming in process of time more extensive and copious, the an- 
cient manner of speech still subsisted among many nations ; and what had 
arisen from necessity, continued to be used for ornameut. Wherever 
there was much fire and vivacity in the genius of nations, thev were natu- 

H 



«W l«h* AiVil PMtikESS 



[-LECT. VI, 



rally inclined to a mode of conversation which gratified the imagination 
so much; for an .magmation which is warm, is always pronTo throw 
both a great deal of action, and a variety of tones, into discourte Upon 
this principle, Dr Warburton accounts for so much speaking by action 
as we find among the Old Testament prophets ; as when Jeremhfh breaks 
the potter's vessel m sight of the people ; throws a book inlo the Eu 
pirates ; puts on bonds and yokes ; and carries out his househo d stuff ■ 

in' iL ' mag,ne f' m ' Sht besi 8 Dific »' •node* ofexpression.very uutul 
ral in those ages, when men were accustomed to explain themselves so 
much by actions and gestures. I„ h ke manner, among the northern 

as exX", "X e l}T™ m0ti0nS aml acti ° nS weref0UDd ^ be much Zi 
as explanatory of their meaning, on all their great occasions of inter- 
course with each other • and by the belts and strings of wampum which 
they gave and received, they were accustomed to declare S££ni£r 
as much as by their discourse. meaning, 

rJIi? -?f rd '° inflec 1 tions of ™me, thes e are so natural, that to some 
lt*',l v l P F, eared eaS ' er t0 eX P' ess different ideas, by varying the 
for alTlh/ . thfi y P r0n0U u Ced lhe Same word ' th ™ to coVi/e Z7 S 
tor all their ideas 1 his ,s the practice of the Chinese in particular 

The number of words m their language is said not to be great but in 
speaking, they vary each of their words on no less than five different 

Tn?. S, J f*r " ,ey ^^ the Same W ° rd Si « nif y fiTe -fferenltmgs 
This must give a great appearance of music or singing to their speech 

For those inflections of voice which, in the infancy of language were do 
more than harsh or dissonant cries, m ust, as ianguage gradually pushes 
pass into more smooth and musical sounds ; and hence is foS what 
we call the prosody of a language. at 

R„ I l!r* W fi a ° d deserves attention, that, both in the Greek and 
Roman languages, this musical and gesticulating pronunciation was reiaTn- 
ed ,n a very high degree. Without having attended to this, we shall be 
l^hV,' Und " sta » di "^everal passages of the classics, whkh rela t to 
the public speaking, and the theatrical entertainments of the ancients, it 
appears from many circumstances, that the prosody both of the Greek" 
and Romans was carried much farther than ours ; or that they spoke 
with more and stronger inflections of voice than we use. Thequautky 
of their syllables was much more fixed than in any of the mooem la£ 
guages, and rendered mnch more sensible to the ear in pronouncing them 
Besides qnan .ties or the difference of short and long, accents we enlaced 
upon syllables, the acute, grave, and circumflex; the Z of which 
accents we have now entirely lost, but which, we know, determined the 

ZZ I t V T '° rrT ° r fa "- ° Ur modern Pronunciation Zthavl 
appeared to them a lifeless monotony. The declamation of their orators 

natreo^rrr'; " of their actors upon ,he st »^ -pp™** t0 ,£. 

na ure of a rec tative in music ; was capable of being marked in notes 
and supported with instruments ; asseverallearned menhave fully prove, ' 
And it this was the case, as they have shown, among the Roman 
the Greeks, it is well known, were still a more musical 'people than the 
Romans, and carried their attention to tone and pronunciation much far 
ther id every public exhibition. Aristotle, in his poetics, considers the 
music of tragedy as one of its chief and most essential parts 
,„ W T* ,"" ParaUel Wi ' h re S ard t0 S estn re ; for strong tones, aod 

TZ ■£ *%T BS ' ^ ^ ° bSerVe> alwa y^° l0 ^ ther - A <=ti0D is treat- 
ed of by all the ancient critics, as the chief quality in every public speak- 



I.ECT. VI.] 0F LANGUAGE. 

59 

R r ; m 7 he a ° tion > botl \ of the orators and the players in Greece and 
Rome, was far more vehement than what we are accustoLiM -. P 
r e „I 0Uld T Seemed a """man to os! W G a el r a e CC , Tft h £fe 
qoence upon the anc.ent stage, that there is reason for believ ,1 thTot 
*™e° cc f°nMhe speaking and the actin § P ar ' "ere divided which 
Z«t? r ' deaS ' W ° Uld f ° rm a Stran S e exhibi 'ion ; one plaver spoke 

for under the rei gns of Augustus and Tiberios, the favourite en ertain' 

Tat traiZ Th' ,K Pe ° p1 / Were moved > and we P t *< «f. «« much 
obltedfot m 2 r P T'° tt f ° r u" b6Came so ^roug, that laws were 



guid as ours. 



When the barbarians spread themselves over the Roman Pmnirp tw. 
: uiediricai action. Both conversation and public «Deakin<r h* 

^v^ 

J.S c ,n proportion to the liveliness and sensibility of the people A 
iSnct^Tf Italy DC,a " 0n "* ^^^ f*™ a,e > <° &• ** the 

■ ^^Kterf h of lansuag f' ,€t ,,s procefid - io the third ^. 

this respect also y °f J^*"* 6 ,n ' s «»! fly state, and its progres 
ords an!?™;; ,. ' 6 manner ,n whlch me ° at 6rst uttered Their 

« r mnerWM conT ?"» ,I <»'. was st ™ng and expressive, enfo cin « 

S t^vu P H eX Tr d ' dea l byCrieSand S estures i sothelan/uag? 



60 StlSE AND PROGRESS fLECT. VI. 

We are apt, upon a superficial view, to imagine, that those modes of 
expression which are called figures of speech, are among the chief re- 
finements of speech, not invented till after language had advanced to its 
latter periods, and mankind were brought into a polished state ; and that, 
then, they were devised by orators and rhetoricians. The quite contra- 
ry of this is the truth. Mankind never employed so many figures of 
speech, as when they had hardly any words for expressing their meaning. 

For, first the want of proper names for every object obliged them to 
use one name for many ; and, of course, to express themselves by com- 
parisons, metaphors, allusions, and all those substituted forms of speech 
which render language figurative. Next, as the objects with which they 
were most conversant, were the sensible, material objects around them, 
names would be given to those objects, long before words were invented 
for signifying the dispositions o( the mind, or any sort of moral and in- 
tellectual ideas. Hence, the early language of men being entirely made 
up of words descriptive of sensible objects, it became of necessity ex- 
tremely metaphorical. — For, to signify any desire or passion, or any act 
or feeling of the mind, they had no precise expression which was appro- 
priated to that purpose, but were under a necessity of painting the 
emotion or passion which they felt, by allusion to those sensible objects 
which had most relation to it, and which could render it, in some sort, 
visible to others. 

But it was not necessity alone, that gave rise to this figured style. 
Other circumstances also, at the commencement of language, contributed 
to it. In the infancy of all societies, men are much under the dominion of 
imagination and passion. They live scattered and dispersed ; they are 
unacquainted with the course of things ; they are, every day, meeting 
with new and strange objects. Fear and surprise, wonder and astonish- 
ment, are their most frequent passions. Their language will necessarily 
partake of this character of their blinds. They will be prone to exag- 
geration and hyperbole. They will be given to describe every thing 
with the strongest colours, and most vehement expressions ; infinitely 
more than men living in the advanced and cultivated periods of society, 
when their imaginations are more chastened, their passions are more 
tamed, and a wider experience has rendered the objects of life more fa- 
roiliartothem. Even the manner in which I before showed that the first 
tribes of men uttered their words, would have considerable influence on 
their style. Wherever strong exclamations, tones, and gesture, enter 
much into conversation, the imagination is always more exercised; a 
greater effort of fancy and passion is excited. — Consequently, the fancy 
kept awake, and rendered more sprightly by this mode of utterance, 
operates upon style, and enlivens it more. 

These reasonings are confirmed by undoubted facts. The style of all 
the most early languages, among nations who are in the first and rude 
periods of society, is found, without exception, to be full of figures ; hy- 
perbolical and picturesque in a high degree. We have a striking instance 
of this in the American languages, which are known, by the most au- 
thentic accounts, to be figurative to excess. The Iroquois and Illinois 
carry on their treaties, and public transactions with bolder metaphors, 
and greater pomp of style, than we use in our poetical productions.^ 

* Thus,to give an instance of the singular style of these nations, the Five Nations, 
of Canada, when entering on a treaty of peace with us, expressed themselves by 



, 



LECT. VI. j OF LANGUAGE. (J 1 

Another remarkable instance is, the style of the Old Testament, which 
is carried on by constant allusions to sensible objects. Iniquity, or guilt, 
is expressed by " a spotted garment ;" misery, by "drinking the cup of 
astonishment ;" vain pursuits, by '• feeding on ashes ; ? a sinful life, by 
*' a crooked path ;" prosperity, by " the -candle of the Lord shining on 
our head;" and the like, in innumerable instances. Hence we have 
been accustomed to call this sort of style the oriental style ; as fancying 
it to be peculiar to the nations of the east ; whereas, from the Ameri- 
can style, and from many other instances, it plainly appears not to have 
been peculiar to any one region or climate ; but to have been common 
to all nations in certain periods of society and language. 

Hence we may receive some light concerning that seeming paradox, 
that poetry is more ancient than prose. I shall have occasion to discuss 
this point fully hereafter, when I come to treat of the nature and origin, 
of poetry. At present, it is sufficient to observe, that, from what has 
been said, it plainly appears that the style of all language must have been 
originally poetical ; strongly tinctured with that enthusiasm, and that 
descriptive metaphorical expression, which distinguishes poetry. 

As language, in its progress, began to grow more copious, it gradually 
Ipst that figurative style, which was its early character. When men 
were furnished with proper and familiar names for every object, both 
sensible and moral, they were not obliged io use so many circumlocu- 
tions. Style became more precise, and, of course more simple. Ima- 
gination, too, in proportion as society advanced, had less influence over 
mankind. The vehement manner of speaking by tones and gestures 
became not so universal. The understanding was more exercised ; the 
fancy less. Intercourse among mankind becoming more extensive and 
frequent, clearness of style, in signifying their meaning to each other, 
was the chief object of attention. In place of poets, philosophers be- 
came the instructers of men ; and in their reasonings on all different 
subjects, introduced that plainer and simpler style of composition which 
we now call prose. Among the Greeks, Pherecydes of Scyros, the 
master of Pythagoras,- is recorded to have been the first, who, in this 
sense, composed any writing in prose. The ancient metaphorical and 
poetical dress of language was now Maid aside from the intercourse of 
men, and reserved for those occasions only, on which ornament was pro- 
fessedly studied. 

Thus I have pursued the history of language through some of the 
variations it has undergone ; I have considered it, in the first structure 

their chiefs, in the following language : " We are happy in having buried under 
ground the red axe, that has so often been died with the blood-of our brethren. Now, 
in this fort, we inter the axe, and plant the tree of peace. We plant a tree, whose 
top will reach the sun, and its branches spread abroad, so that it shall be seen afaroff. 
May its growth never be stifled and choaked; but may it shade both your country and 
ours with its leaves ! Let us make fast its roo'S, and extend them to the utmost of 
our colonies. If -the French should come to shake this tree, we should know it by 
the motion of its roots reaching into our country. May the Great Spirit allow us to 
rest in tranquillity upon our mats, and never again dig up the axe to cut down the 
tree of peace ! Let the earth be trod hard over it, where it lies buried. Let a 
strong stream run under the pit, to 'wash the evil away out of our sight and remem- 
brance. The fire that had long burned in Albany is extinguished. The bloody bed is 
washed clean, and the tears are wiped from our eyes. We now renew the covenant 
chain of friendship. Let it be kept bright and clean as silver, and not suffered to 
contract any rust. Let not any one. pull away his arm from it. ,; These passages are 
extracted from Cadwallader Colden's History of the five Indian Nations: where it 
nppears, from the authentic documents he produces, that such is their genuine style 



63 RISE AND PROGRESS [LECT.VU. 

and composition of words ; io the manner of uttering or pronouncing 
words; and ,n the style and character of speech. I have vet to con 
wh«« r n h /7 ieW ' res P flctin ^ he o^er and arrangement words 
b^ Z: m" t itr* resS t0 ha - take " P-ce. iimi&r to what Ihte 



been now illustrating. 



LECTURE VII. 



RISE AND PROGRESS OF LANGUAGE, AND OP WRITING. 

w7rv^Sdi d rt h e T h dern ^ ?KaMSE 



I now spe'lUetr^ h t " Cly '^T^' ° f that a,teration of which 
«W,? 8 S t <■ tUS SgUr , e t0 °' ,rse1 ^ a savage, who beholds some 

toiive Uto him s'„ Wb ' Ch ^ ^ '*»#* ™« who "quest! another 
io .ve it to him. Supposing our savage to be unacquainted with word, 
he would, id that case, labour to make himself be understood bv poS 
earnestly at the object which he desired, and uttering at Kme"™ 
a passionate cry. Supposing him to have acquired words the fc t wZt 
which he uttered would, of course, be thelame of that objec H f 

But though not the most logical, it is, however, in one view, the mosTnatu ' 
might therefore conclude, a priori, that this would be theorder.u whkh 

"L n "her 6 "' h Ti 5 , " iD the G ^^IZ **%£ 
Amerlran ,olguel USS ' aD ' ?? ***"** the Gaelic ' and ^ "1 of Z 

a te rfl» a l n }™S™Z e > the ""angement which most commonly obtain, 
s, to place first in the sentence, that word which esnr« e « !£. • '' 

ew^V* the diSC ° UrSe ' l °^ ther wl Us cir u^ nce e a P „d n 'f: 
erward the person or the thing that acts upon it, Th„s' SaHust 



LECT. VH.] OP LANGUAGE. ($ 

comparing together the mind and body : " Animo imperio, corporis 
servitio, magis utimur," which order certainly renders the sentence 
more lively and striking, than when it is arranged according to our Eng- 
lish construction ; " we make most use of the direction of the soul, and 
of the service of the body." The Latin order gratifies more the rapi- 
dity of the imagination, which naturally runs first to that which is its 
chief object ; and having once named it, carries it in view throughout 
the rest of the sentence. In the same manner in poetry : 

Justura et tenacem propositi virum, 
fion civiura ardor prava jubentium, 
Non vultus instantis tyranni, 
Mente quatit solida 

Every person of taste must be sensible, that here the words are arranged 
with a much greater regard to the figure which the several objects 
make in the fancy, than our English construction admits ; which would 
require the " Justum et tenacem propositi virum," though undoubtedly, 
the capital object in the sentence, to be thrown into the last place. 

I have said, that, in the Greek and Roman languages, the most com- 
mon arrangement is, to place that first which strikes the imagination of 
the speaker most. I do not, however, pretend, that this holds without 
exception. Sometimes regard to the harmony of the period requires a 
different order ; and in languages susceptible of so much musical beauty, 
and pronounced with so much tone and modulation as were used by those 
nations, the harmony of periods was an object carefully studied. Some- 
times, too, attention to the perspicuity, to the force, or to the artful sus- 
pension of the speaker's meaning, alter this order ; and produce such 
varieties in the arrangement, that it is not easy to reduce them to any one 
principle. But, in general, this was the genius and character of 
most of the ancient languages, to give such full liberty to the collocation 
of words, as allowed them to assume whatever order was most agreeable 
to the speaker's imagination. The Hebrew, i?, indeed, an exception ; 
which though not altogether without inversions, yet employs them less 
frequently, and approaches nearer to the English construction, than 
either the Greek or the Latin. 

All the modern languages of Europe have adopted a different arrange- 
ment from the ancient. In their prose compositions, very little variety 
is admitted in the collocations of words ; they are mostly fixed to one 
order, and that order is, what may be called, the order of the under- 
standing. They place first in the sentence, the person or thing which 
speaks or acts ; next, its action ; and lastly, the object of its action. 
So that the ideas are made to succeed to one another, not according to 
the degree of importance which the several objects carry in the imagf- 
nation, but according to the order of nature and of time. 

An English writer, paying a compliment to a great man, would say thus ; 
" it is impossible for me to pass over in silence, such remarkable mild- 
ness, such singular and unheard-of clemency, and such unusual mode- 
ration in the exercise of supreme power." Here we have first pre- 
sented to us, the person who speaks. *•' It is impossible for me ;" next, 
what that person is to do, " impossible for him to pass over in silence ;" 
and lastly, the object which moves him so to do, " the mildness, clemen- 
cy, and moderation of his patron." Cicero, from whom I have trans- 
lated these words, just reverses this order ; beginning with the object, 
placing that first which was the exciting idea in the speaker's mind, and 



64 RISE AND PROGRESS [LEO!. V(I 

ending with the speaker and his action. " Tantam mansuetudinem, tam 
inusitatem inauditamque cletnentiam, tantumque in summa potestate 
rerum omnium modum, tacitus nullo modo prasterire possum." (Orat. 
pro Marcell.) 

The Latin order is more animated ; the English more clear and dis- 
tinct. The Romans generally arranged their words according to the 
order in which the ideas rose in the speaker's imaginalion. — We arrange 
them according to the order in which the understanding directs those 
ideas to be exhibited, in succession, to the view of another. Our ar- 
rangement, therefore, appears to be the consequence of greater refine- 
ment in the art of speech ; as far as clearness in communication is 
understood to be the end of speech. 

In poetry, where we are supposed to rise above the ordinary style, 
and to speak the language of fancy and passion, our arrangement is not 
altogether so limited ; but some greater liberty is allowed for transpo- 
sition and inversion. Even there, however, that liberty is confined within 
narrow bounds, in comparison of the ancient languages. The different 
modern tongues vary from one another in this respect. The French 
language is, of them nil, the most determinate in the order of its words, 
and admits the least of inversion, either in prose or poetry. The 
English admits it more. But the Italian retains the most of the ancient 
transpositive character ; though one is apt to think it attended with a 
little obscurity in the style of some of their authors, who deal most in 
these transpositions. 

It is proper, next, to observe, that there is one circumstance in the 
structure of all the modern tongues, which, of necessity, limits their 
arrangement, in a great measure, to one fixed and determinate train. 
We have disused those differences of termination, which, in the Greek 
and Latin, distinguished the several cases of nouns, and tenses of verbs ; 
and which, thereby, pointed out the mutual relation of the several words 
in a sentence to one another, though the related words were disjoined, 
and placed in different parts of the sentence. This is an alteration in 
the structure of language, of which I shall have occasion to say more 
in the next lecture. One obvious effect of it is, that we have now, for 
the most par*, no way left us to show the close relation of any two 
word? to each other in meaning, but by placing them close to one another 
in the period. For instance ; the Romans could, with propriety, express 
themselves thus : 

Extinctum nymphs crudeli funere Daphnim 
Fiebant 

Because " extinctum et Daphnim," being both in the accusative case, 
this showed, that the adjective and the substantive were related to each 
other, though placed at the two extremities of the line ; and that both 
are governed by the active verb " fiebant," to which " nymphae" 
plainly appeared to be the nominative. The different terminations here 
reduced all into order, and made the connexion of the several words 
perfec;'y clear. But let us translate these, words literally into English, 
according to the Latin arrangement ; " dead the nymphs by a cruel fate 
Daphnis lamented ;" and they become a perfect riddle, in which it is 
impossible to find any meaning. 

It was by means of this contrivance, which obtained in almost all the 
ancient languages, of varying the termination of nouns and verbs, and 



E.ECX. VII. j OF WfUTfKS. ^5 

thereby pointing out the concordance and the government of the words, 
in a sentence, that they enjoyed so much liberty of transposition, and 
could marshal and arrange their words in any way that gratified the ima- 
gination, or pleased the ear. When language came to be modelled by 
the northern nations, who overran the empire, they dropped the cases 
of nouns ; and the different terminations of verbs, with the more ease, 
because they placed no great value upon the advantages arising from such 
a structure of language. They Were attentive only to clearness, and 
copiousness of expression. They neither regarded much the harmon}^ 
of sound, nor sought to gratify the imagination by the collocation of 
words. They studied solely to express themselves in such a manner as 
should exhibit their ideas to others in the most distinct and intelligible 
order. And hence, if our language, by reason of the simple arrangement 
of its words, possesses less harmony, less beauty, and less force, than the 
Greek or Latin ; it is, however, in its meaning, more obvious and plain. 

Thus I have shown what the natural progress of language has been, in 
several material articles : and this account of the genius and progress of 
language, lays a foundation for many observations, both curious aad use- 
ful. From what has been said in this, and the preceding lecture, it appears 
that language was at first barren in words, but descriptive by the sound 
of these words ; and expressive in the manner of uttering them, by the 
aid of significant tones and gestures : style was figurative and poetical : 
arrangement was fanciful and lively. It appears, that, in all the suc- 
cessive changes which language has undergone, as the world advances, 
the understanding has gained ground on the fancy and imagination. The 
progress of language* in this respect, resembles the progress of age in 
man. The imagination is most vigorous and predominant in youth ; with 
advancing years, the imagination cools, and the understanding ripens* 
Thus language, proceeding from sterility to copiousness, hath, at the 
same time, proceeded from vivacity to accuracy ; from fire and enthu- 
siasm, to coolness and precision. Those characters of early language, 
descriptive sound, vehement tones and gestures, figurative style, and 
inverted arrangement, all hang together, have a mutual influence on each 
other, and have all gradually given place to arbitrary sounds, calm pro- 
nunciation, simple style, plain arrangement. Language has become, ia 
modern times, more correct, indeed, and accurate ; but, however, less 
striking and animated ; in its ancient state, more favourable to poetry 
and oratory ; in its present, to reason and philosophy. 

Having finished my account of the progress of speech, I proceed to 
give an account of the progress of writing, which next demands our 
notice ; though it will not require so full a discussion as the former 
subject. 

Next to speech, writing is, beyond doubt, the most useful art of which 
men are possessed. It is plainly an improvement upon speech, and 
therefore must have been posterior to it in order of time. At first, 
men thought of nothing more than communicating their thoughts to one 
another, when present, by means of words, or sounds, which they 
uttered. Afterward, they devised this further method, of mutual com- 
munication with one another, when absent, by means of marks or 
characters presented to the eye, which we call writing. 

Written characters are of two sorts. They are either signs for things, 
or signs for words. Of the former sort, signs for things, are the pictures, 
hieroglyphics, and symbols, employed by the ancient nations ; of the 



Q& RISE AND PROGRESS [LEC1VVJI. 

latter sort, signs for words, are the alphabetical characters, now employed 
by all Europeans. These two kinds of writing are generically and 
essentially distinct. 

Pictures were, undoubtedly, the first essay towards writing. Imitation 
is so natural to man, that, in all ages, and among all nations, some methods 
have obtained, of copying or tracing the likeness of sensible objects. 
Those methods would soon be employed by men for giving some imper- 
fect information to others, at a distance, of what had happened ; or for 
preserving the memory of facts which they sought to record. Thus, to 
signify that one man had killed another, they drew the figure of one man 
stretched upon the earth, and of another standing by him with a deadly 
weapon in his hand. We find, in fact, that when America was first dis- 
covered, this was the only sort of writing known in the kingdom of 
Mexico. By historical pictures, the Mexicans are said to have trans- 
mitted the memory of the most important transactions of their empire. 
These, however, must have been extremely imperfect records ; and the 
nations who had no other, must have been very gross and rude. — Pic- 
tures could do no more than delineate external events. They could 
neither exhibit the connexions of them, nor describe such qualities 
as were not visible to the eye, nor convey any idea of the dispositions 
or words of men. 

To supply, in some degree, this defect, there arose, in process of 
time, the invention of what are called hieroglyphical characters ; which 
may be considered as the second stage of the art of writing. Hiero- 
glyphics consist in certain symbols, which are made to stand for invisi- 
ble objects, on account of an analogy or resemblance which such symbols 
were supposed to bear to the objects. Thus, an eye was the hiero- 
glyphical symbol of knowledge ; a circle, of eternity, which has nei- 
ther beginning nor end. Hieroglyphics, therefore, were a more refined 
and extensive species of painting. Pictures delineated the resemblance 
of external visible objects. Hieroglyphics painted invisible objects, by 
analogies taken from the external world. 

Among the Mexicans, were found some traces of hieroglyphical cha- 
racters, intermixed with their historical pictures. But Egypt was the 
country where this sort of writing was most studied, and brought into a 
regular art. In hieroglyphics was conveyed all the boasted wisdom of 
their priests. According to the properties which they ascribe to ani- 
mals, or the qualities with which they supposed natural objects to be 
endowed, they pitched upon them to be the emblems, or hieroglyphics 
of moral objects; and employed them in their writing for that end. 
Thus, ingratitude was denominated by a viper ; imprudence, by a fly ; 
wisdom, by an ant ; victory, by a hawk ; a dutiful child, by a stork ; a 
man universally shunned, by an eel ; which they supposed to be found 
in company with no other fish. Sometimes they joined together two or 
more of these hieroglyphical characters ; as, a serpent with a hawk's 
head, to denote nature, with God presiding over it. But, as many of 
those properties of objects which they assumed for the foundation of 
their hieroglyphics, were merely imaginary, and the allusions drawn 
from them were forced and ambiguous : as the conjunction of their cha- 
racters rendered them still more obscure, and must have expressed very 
indistinctly the connexions and relations of things ; this sort of writing 
could be no other than enigmatical, and confused in the highest degree ; 
and roust have been a very imperfect vehicle of knowledge of any kind- 



"MECT. VII.] OF -WRITING. ft 

It has been imagined, that hieroglyphics were an invention of the 
Egyptian priests, for concealing their learning from common view ; and 
that, upon this account, it was preferred by them to the alphabetical 
method of writing. But this is certainly a mistake. Hieroglyphics 
were, undoubtedly, employed at first from necessity, not from choice or 
refinement ; and would never have been thought of, if alphabetical cha- 
racters had been known. The nature of the invention plainly shows it 
to have been one of those gross and rude essays towards writing, which 
were adopted in the early ages of the world, in order to extend farther 
the first method which they had employed of simple pictures, or repre- 
sentations of visible objects. Indeed, in after times, when alphabetical 
writing was introduced into Egypt, and the hieroglyphical was, of course, 
fallen into disuse, it is known, that the priests still employed the hiero- 
glyphical characters, as a sacred kind of writing, now become peculiar to 
themselves, and serving to give an air of mystery to their learning and 
religion. In this state, the Greeks found hieroglyphical writing, when 
they began to have intercourse with Egypt ; and some of their writers 
mistook this use, to which they found it applied, lor the cause that had 
given rise to the invention. 

As writing advanced from pictures of visible objects, to hieroglyphics, 
or symbols of things invisible ; from these latter, it advanced among 
some nations, to simple arbitrary marks which stood for objects though 
without any resemblance or analogy to the objects signified. Of this 
nature was the method of writing practised among the Peruvians. They 
made use of small cords, of different colours ; and by knots upon these, 
of various sizes, and differently ranged, they contrived signs for giving 
information, and communicating their thoughts to one another. 

Of this nature, also, are the written characters, which are used to this 
day throughout the great empire of China. The Chinese have no al- 
phabet of letters, or simple sounds, which compose their words. But 
every single character which they use in writing is significant of an idea ; 
it is a mark which stands for some one thing, or object. By consequence, 
the number of these characters must be immense. It must correspond to 
the whole number of objects, or ideas, which they have occasion to ex- 
press ; that is, to the whole number of words which they employ in 
speech ; nay, it must be greater than the number of words ; one word, by 
varying the tone, with which it is spoken, may be made to signify several 
different things. They are said to have seventy thousand of those writ- 
ten characters. To read and write them to perfection, is the study of a 
whole life ; which subjects learning, among them, to infinite disadvan- 
tage ; and must have greatly retarded the progress of all science. 

Concerning the origin of these Chinese characters, there have been 
different opinions, and much controversy. According to the most pro- 
bable accounts, the Chinese writing began, like the Egyptian, with pic- 
tures and hieroglyphical figures. These figures being, in progress, ah^- 
breviated in their form, for the sake of writing them easily, and greatly 
enlarged in their number, passed, at length, into those marks or charac- 
ters which they now use, and which have spread themselves through se- 
veral nations of the east. For we are informed, that the Japanese, the 
Tonquinese, and the Corceans, who speak different languages from one 
another, and from the inhabitants of China, use, however, the same 
written characters with them ; and by this means correspond intelligibly 
with each other in writing, though ignorant of the language spoken in 



08 RISE AND PROGRESS [LECT.YIL 

their several countries ; a plain proof, that the Chinese characters are 
like hieroglyphics, independent of language : are signs of things, not of 
words. 

We have one instance of this sort of writing in Europe. Our ci- 
phers, as they are called, or arithmetical figures, 1, 2, 3, 4, &c. which 
we have derived from the Arabians, are significant marks, precisely of 
the same nature with the Chinese characters. They have no depen- 
dence on words ; but each figure represents an object ; represents the 
number for which it stands, and accordingly, on being presented to the 
eye, is equally understood by all the nations who have agreed in the use 
of these ciphers ; by Italians, Spaniards, French, and English, however 
different the languages of those nations are from one another, and what- 
ever different names they give, in their respective languages, to each 
numerical cipher. 

As far, then, as we have j r et advanced, nothing has appeared which 
resembles our letters, or which can be called writing, in the sense we 
now give to that term. What we have hitherto seen, were all direct 
signs for things, and made no use of the medium of sound, or words ; 
either signs by representation, as the Mexican pictures ; or signs by ana- 
logy, as the Egyptian hieroglyphics ; or signs by institution, as the Peru- 
vian knots, the Chinese characters, and the Arabian ciphers. 

At length, in different nations, men became sensible of the imperfection, 
the ambiguity, and the tediousnessof each of these methods of commu- 
nication with one other. They began to consider, that by employing 
signs which should stand not directly for things, but for the words which 
they used in speech for naming these things, a considerable advantage 
would be gained. For they reflected farther, that though the number of 
words in every language be, indeed, very great, yet the number of articu- 
late sounds, which are used in composingthese words, is comparatively 
small. The same simple sounds are continually recurring and repeated ; 
and are combined together, in various ways for forming all the variety of 
words which we utter. They bethought themselves, therefore, of in- 
venting signs, not for each word by itself, but for each of those simple 
sounds which we employ in forming our words ; and, by joining to- 
gether a few of those signs, they saw that it would be practicable to ex- 
press, in writing, the whole combinations of sounds which our words 
require. 

The first step, in this new progress, was the invention of an alphabet of 
syllables, which probably preceded the invention of an alphabet of let- 
ters among some of the ancient nations ; and which is said to be retained 
to this day, in ^Ethiopia, and some countries of India. By fixing upon 
a particular mark, or character, for every syllable of the language, the 
number of characters, necessary to be used in writing, was reduced with- 
in a much smaller compass than the number of words in the language. 
Still, however, the number of characters was great ; and must have con- 
tinued to render both reading and writing very laborious arts. Till, at 
last, some happy genius arose, and tracing the sounds made by the human 
voice, to their most simple elements, reduced them to a very few vowels 
and consonants ; and, by affixing to each of these the signs which we 
now call letters, taught men how, by their combinations, to put in writing 
all the different words, or combinations of sound, which they employed in 
speech. By being reduced to this simplicity, the art of writing was 
brought to its highest state of perfection ; and in this state, we now en 
joy it in all the countries of Europe, 



LEGT. VII. j OF WRITING. (j9 

To whom we are indebted for this sublime and refined discovery, does 
not appear. Concealed by the darkness of remote antiquity, the great 
inventor is deprived of those honours which would still be paid to his 
memory by all the lovers of knowledge and learning. It appears from 
the books which Moses has written, that among the Jews, and proba- 
bly among the Egyptians, letters had been invented prior to his age. The 
universal tradition among the ancients is, that they were first imported in- 
to Greece by Cadmus the Phoenician ; who, according to the common 
system of chronology, was contemporary with Joshua ; according to Sir 
Isaac Newton's system, contemporary with King David. As the Phoeni- 
cians are not known to have been the inventors of any art or science, 
though by means of their extensive commerce, they propagated the dis- 
coveries made by other nations, the most probable and natural account of 
the origin of alphabetical characters is, that they took rise in Egypt, the 
first civilized kingdom of which we have any authentic cocouius, and 
the great source of arts and polity among the ancients. In that country, 
the favourite study of hieroglyphical characters, had directed much at- 
tention to the art of writing. Their hieroglyphics are known to have 
been intermixed with abbreviated symbols, and arbitrary marks ; whence 
at last they caught the idea of contriving marks, not for things merely , 
but for sounds. Accordingly Plato (in Phasdo) expressly attributes the 
invention of letters to Theuth, the Egyptian, who is supposed to have 
been the Hermes, or Mercury, of the Greeks. Cadmus himself, though 
he passed from Phoenicia to Greece, yet is affirmed, by several of the 
ancients, to have been originally of Thebes in Egypt. Most probably, 
Moses carried with him the Egyptian letters into the land of Canaan ; and 
there being adopted by the Phoenicians, who inhabited part of that coun- 
try, they were transmitted into Greece. 

The alphabet which Cadmus brought into Greece was imperfect, and 
is said to have contained only sixteen letters. The rest were afterward 
added, according as signs for proper sounds were found to be wanting. 
It is curious to observe, that the letters which we use at this day, can be 
traced back to this very alphabet of Cadmus. The Roman alphabet* 
which obtains with us, and with most of the European nations, is plainly 
formed on the Greek, with a few variations. And all learned men ob- 
serve, that the Greek characters, especially according to the manner in 
which they are formed in the oldest inscriptions, have a remarkable conv 
formit}' with the Hebrew or Samaritan characters, which, it is agreed, are 
the same with the Phoenician, or the alphabet of Cadmus. Invert the 
Greek characters from left to right, according to the Phoenician and He- 
brew manner of writing, and they are nearly the same. Besides the con- 
formity of figure, the names or denominations of the letters, alpha, beta, 
gamma, &c. and the order in which the letters are arranged in all the 
several alphabets, Phoenician, Hebrew, Greek and Roman, agree so 
much as amounts to a demonstration, that they were all derived origi- 
nally from the same source. An invention so useful and simple was 
greedily received by mankind, and propagated with speed and facility 
through many different nations. 

The letters were, originally, written from the right hand towards the 
left ; that is, in a contrary order to what we now practise. This man- 
ner of writing obtained among the Assyrians, Phoenicians, Arabians, and 
Hebrews ; and from some very old inscriptions, appears to have obtained 
hIso among theGreeks. Afterward, the Greeks adopted a new method. 



70 RISE AND PROGRESS, ETC. [LECT.VH, 

writing their lines alternately from the right to the left, and from the left 
to the right, which was called Boustrophedon ; or, writing after the man- 
ner in which oxen plough the ground. Of this, several specimens still 
remain ; particularly, the inscription on the famous Sigaean monument ; 
and down to the days of Solon, the legislator of Athens, this continued 
to be the common method of writing. At length, the motion from the 
left hand to the right being found more natural and commodious, the 
practice of writing, in this direction, prevailed throughout all the coun- 
tries of Europe. 

Writing was long a kind of engraving. Pillars and tables of stone, 
were first employed for this purpose, and afterward plates of the softer 
metals, such as lead. In proportion as writing became more common, 
lighter and more portable substances were employed. The leaves and 
the bark of certain trees were used in some countries : and in others, 
tablets of wood, covered with a thin coat of soft wax, on which the im- 
pression was made with a stylus of iron. In later times, the hides of 
animals, properly prepared and polished into parchment, were the most 
common materials. Our present method of writing on paper, is an in- 
vention of no greater antiquity than the fourteenth century. 

Thus I have given some account of the progress of these two great 
arts, speech and writing ; by which men's thoughts are communicated 
and the foundation laid for all knowledge and improvement. Let us 
conclude the subject, with comparing in a few words, spoken language, 
and written language ; or words uttered in our hearing, with words, re- 
presented to the eye ; where we shall find several advantages and disad- 
vantages to be balanced on both sides. 

The advantages of writing above speech are, that writing is both the 
more extensive, and a more permanent method of communication. 
More extensive, as it is not confined within the narrow circle of those 
who hear our words, but, by means of written characters, we can send our 
thoughts abroad, and propagate them through the world ; we can lift our 
voice, so as to speak to the most distant regions of the earth. More 
permanent also ; as it prolongs this voice to the most distant ages ; it 
gives us the means of recording our sentiments of futurity, and of per- 
petuating, the instructive memory of past transactions. It likewise 
affords this advantage to such as read, above such as hear, that, having 
the written characters before their eyes, they can arrest the sense of the 
writer. They can pause, and revolve, and compare, at their leisure, 
one passage with another : whereas, the voice is fugitive and passing ; 
yon must catch the words the moment they are uttered, or you lose 
them for ever. 

But, although these be so great advantages of written language, that 
speech, without writing, would have been very inadequate for the in- 
struction of mankind ; yet we must not forget to observe, that spoken 
language has a great superiority over written language, in point of 
energy or force. The voice of the living speaker makes an impression 
on the mind, much stronger than can be made by the perusal of any 
writing. The tones of voice, the looks and gesture, which accompany 
discourse, and which no writing can convey, render discourse, when it is 
well managed, infinitely more clear, and more expressive, than the most 
accurate writing. For tones, looks, and gestures, are natural interpreters 
of the sentiments of the mind. They remove ambiguities ; they enforce 
impressions ; they operate on us by means of sympathy, whhich is one of 



EiECT.VUI.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. % 

the most powerful instruments of persuasion. Our sympathy is always 
awakened more, by hearing the speaker, than by reading his works in 
our closet. Hence, though writing may answer the purposes of mere 
instruction, yet all the great and high efforts of eloquence must be made 
by means of spoken, not of written language. 



LECTURE VIII. 






STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE, 

After having given an account of the rise and progress of language, 
I proceed to treat of its structure, or of general grammar. The struc- 
ture of language is extremely artificial ; and there are few sciences, in 
which a deeper, or more refined logic, is employed, than in grammar. 
It is apt to be slighted by superficial thinkers as belonging to those rudi- 
ments of knowledge, which were inculcated upon us in our earliest youth. 
But what was then inculcated before we could comprehend its principles, 
would abundantly repay our study in maturer years ; and to the igno- 
rance of it, must be attributed many of those fundamental defects which 
appear in writing. 

Few authors have written with philosophical accuracy on the princi- 
ples of general grammar ; and, what is more to be regretted, fewer still 
have thought of applying those principles to the English language. 
While the French tongue has long been an object of attention to many 
able and ingenious writers of that nation, who have considered its con- 
struction, and determined its propriety with great accuracy, the genius 
and grammar of the English, to the reproach of the country, have not 
been studied with equal care, or ascertained with the same precision. 
Attempts have been made, indeed, of Jate towards supplying this de- 
fect ; and some able writers have entered on the subject ; but much re- 
mains yet to be done. 

I do not propose to give any system, either of grammar in general, or 
of English grammar in particular. A minute discussion of the niceties 
of language would carry us too much off from other objects, which de- 
mand our attention in this course of lectures. But I propose to give a 
general view of the chief principles relating to this subject, in observa- 
tions on the several parts of which speech or language is composed ; re- 
marking, as I go along, the peculiarities of our own tongue. After 
which, I shall make some more particular remarks on the genius of the 
English language. 

The first thing to be considered is, the division of the several parts of 
speech. The essential parts of speech are the same in all languages. 
There must always be some words which denote the names of objects, or 
mark the subject of discourse ; other words which denote the qualities 
of those objects, and express what we affirm concerning them ; and other 
words, which point out their connexions and relations. Hence, sub- 
stantives, pronouns, adjectives, verbs, prepositions, and conjunctions, 
must necessarily be found in all languages. The most simple and com- 
prehensive division of the parts of speech is, into substantives, attribii- 



12 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. L LECf. Vllf, 

tives, and connectives.* Snbstantives,are all the words which express the 
names of objects, or the subjects of discourse ; attributives, are all the 
words which express any attribute, property, or action of the former ; 
connectives, are what express the connexions, relations, and dependen- 
cies, which take place among them. The common grammatical division 
of speech into eight parts ; nouns, pronouns, verbs, participles, adverbs, 
prepositions, interjections, and conjunctions, is not very logical, as might 
be easily shown ; as it comprehends, under the general term of nouns, 
both substantives and adjectives, which are parts of speech generically 
and essentially distinct ; while it makes a separate part of speech of 
participles, which are no other than verbal adjectives. However, as 
these are the terms to which our ears have been most familiarized, and, 
as an exact logical division is of no great consequence to our present 
purpose, it will be better to make use of these known terms than of any 
other. 

We are naturally led to begin with the consideration of substantive 
nouns, which are the foundation of all grammar, and may be considered 
as the most ancient part of speech. For, assuredly, as soon as men had 
got beyond simple interjections, or exclamations of ^passion, and began 
to communicate themselves by discourse, they would be under a necessity 
of assigning names to the objects they saw around them, which in gram- 
matical language, is called the invention of substantive nouns. t And 
here, at our first setting out, somewhat curious occurs. The individual 
objects which surround us, are infinite in number. A savage, wherever 
he looked, beheld forests and trees. To give separate names to every 

* Quintilian informs us. that this was the most ancient division. " Turn videbit 
quot et quae sunt partes orationis. Quanquam de numero parum convenit. Veteres 
enitn, quorum fuerant Aristoteles atque Theodictes, verba modo, et nomina, et con- 
vinctiones tradiderunt. Videlicet, quod in verbis vim sermonis, in nominibus mate- 
riem, (quiaalterum est quod loquitnur, alterum dequoloquimur) in convinctionibus 
autem complexum eorum esse judicarunt ; quas conjunctiones a plerisque dici scio ; 
sed haec videtur ex a-uvSsT/uat magis propria translatio. Paulatim a philosophicis ac 
maxime a stoicis, auctus est numerus ; ac primum convinctionibus articuli adjecti ; 
post praepositiones ; nominibus. appellatio, deinde pronornen ; deindemistum verbo 
participium; ipsis verbis, adverbia." Lib. i. cap. iv. 

t I do not mean to assert, that among all nations, the first invented words were 
simple and regular substantive nouns. Nothing is more difficult and uncertain, than 
to ascertain the precise steps by which men proceeded in the formation of language. 
Names for objects must, doubtless, have arisen in the most early stages of speech. 
But, it is probable, as the learned author of the Treatise on the Origin and Progress 
of Language has shown (vol. i. p. 371, 395) that, among several savage tribes, some 
of the first articulate sounds that were formed, denoted a whole sentence, rather 
than the name of a particular object ; conveying some information, or expressing 
^ome desires or fears suited to the circumstances in which that tribe was placed, or 
relating to the business they had most frequent occasion to carry on ; as, the lion is 
coming, the river is swelling, &c. Many of their first words, it is likewise probable, 
were not simple substantive nouns, but substantives, accompanied with some of those 
attributes, in conjunction with which they were most frequently accustomed to be- 
hold them as the great bear, the little hut, the wound made by the hatchet, &c. Of 
all which, the author produces instances from several of the American languages : 
and it is, undoubtedly, suitable to the natural course of the operations of tue hu- 
man mind, thus to begin with particulars the most obvious to sense, and to proceed, 
from these, to more general expressions. He likewise observes, that the words or" 
those primitive tongues are far from being, as we might suppose them, rude and short, 
and crowded wiih consonants; but, on tbe contrary, are, for the most part, long: 
words, and full of vowels. 

This is the consequence of their being formed upon the natural sound which the. 
voice utters with most ease, a little varied and distinguished by articulation ; and he 
shows this to hold, in fact, among most of the barbarous languages which are knowo- 






LECT, VIII,] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 73 

tine Of those trees, would have been an endless and impracticable under- 
taking. His first object was to give a name to that particular tree, whose 
fruit relieved his hunger, or whose shade protected him from the sun. 
But observing that though other trees were distinguished from this by- 
peculiar qualities of size or appearance, yet that they also agreed and 
resembled one another, in certain common qualities, such as springing 
from a root, and bearing branches and leaves, he formed in his mind some 
general idea of those common qualities, and ranging all that possessed 
them under one class of objects, he called that whole class a tree. 
Longer experience taught him to subdivide this genus into the several 
species of oak, pine, ash, and the rest, according as his observation 
extended to the several qualities in which these trees agreed or differed. 

But, still he made use only of general terms in speech. For the oak,^ 
the pine, and the ash, were names of whole classes of objects ; each oi 
which included an immense number of undistinguished individuals. 
Here then it appears, that though the formation of abstract, or general 
conceptions, is supposed to be a difficult operation of the mind ; such 
Conceptions must have entered into the very first formation of language. 
For, if we except only the proper names of persons, such as Caesar, John, 
Peter, all the other substantive nouns which we employ in discourse, are 
the names, not of individual objects, but of very extensive genera, or 
species of objects ; as man, lion, house, river, &c. We are not, how- 
ever, to imagine that this invention of general, or abstract terms, requires, 
any great exertion of metaphysical capacity : for, by whatever steps 
the mind proceeds in it, it is certain that vfl!ien men have once observed 
resemblances among objects, they are naturally inclined to call all those 
which resemble one another, by one common name ; and, of course, t& 
class them under one species. We may daily observe this practised by 
children in their first attempts towards acquiring language. 

But now, after language had proceeded as far as I have described, the 
notification which it made of objects was still very imperfect : for, when 
one mentioned to. another in discourse any substantive noun ; such as 
man, lion, or tree, how was it to be known which man, or which lion, or 
which tree he meant, among the many comprehended under one name ? 
Here occurs a very curious, and a very useful contrivance for specifying 
the individual object intended, by means of that part of speech called the 
article. 

The force of the article consists in pointing or singling out from the 
common mass the individual of which we mean to speak. In English we 
have two articles, a and the ; a is more general and unlimited ; the more 
definite and special. A is much the same with one, and marks only any 
one individual of a species ; that individual being either unknown or left 
undetermined ; as, a lion, a king. — The, which possesses more property 
the force of the article, ascertains some known or determined individual 
of the species ; as, the lion, the king. 

Articles are words of great use in speech. In some languages, how- 
ever, they are not found. The Greeks have but one article, o 'n to, 
which answers to our definite, or proper article, the. They have no word 
which answers to our article a, but they supply its place by the absence 
of their article: thus, Bxntevs signifies a king; o BctrsXevg the king. 
The Latins have no article. In the room of it they employ pronouns ; 
as, hie, ilie, iste, for pointing out the objects which they want to distin- 
guish. " Xoster sermo," savs Quintilian, " articulos non desiderata 

K i 



STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [LECT. YliL 



ideoque in alias partes orationis sparguntur." This, however, appears 
tome a defect in the Latin tongue : as articles contribute much to the 
clearness and precision of language. 

In order to illustrate this, remark what difference there is in the mean- 
ing of the following expressions in English, depending wholly on the dif- 
ferent employment of the articles ; "the son of a king. The son of 
the king. A son of the king's." Each of these three phrases has an 
entirely different meaning, which I need not explain, because any one 
who v understands the language, conceives it clearly at first hearing, through 
the different application of the articles a and the. Whereas, in Latin, 
" filius regis," is wholly undetermined; and to explain in which of 
these three senses it is to be understood, for it may bear any of them, 
a circumlocution of several words must be used. In the same manner. 
- e are you a king?" "are you the king?" are questions of quite separate 
import : which, how r ever, are confounded together in the Latin phrase, 
•' esne tu rex ?" "thou art a man," is a very general and harmless posi- 
tion; but, "thou art the man," is an assertion capable, we know, of 
striking terror and remorse into the heart. These observations illustrate 
the force and importance of articles ; and at the same time, I gladly lay 
hold of any opportunity of showing the advantages of our own language. 

Besides this quality of being particularized by the article, three affec- 
tions belong to substantive nouns, number, gender, and case, which 
require our consideration. 

Number distinguishes them as one, or many, of the same kind, called 
the singular and plural ; a distinction found in all languages, and which 
must, indeed, have been coeval with the very infancy of language; as 
there were few things which men had more frequent occasion to express, 
than the difference between one and many. For the greater facility of 
expressing it, it has, in all languages, been marked by some variation 
made upon the substantive noun ; as we see in English, our plural is 
commonly formed by the addition of the letter s. In the Hebrew, Greek, 
and some other ancient languages, we find not only a plural, but a dual 
number ; the rise of which may very naturally be accounted for, from 
separate terms of numbering not being yet invented, and one, two, and 
many, being all, or at least, the chief numeral distinctions which men, 
at first, had any occasion to take notice of. 

Gender, is an affection of substantive nouns, which will lead us into 
more discussion than number. Gender, being f3unded on the distinction 
of the two sexes, it is plain, that in a proper sense, it can only find place 
in the names of living creatures, which admit the distinction of male and 
female ; and, therefore, can be ranged under the masculine or feminine 
genders. All other substantive nouns ought to belong to what grammarians 
call the neuter gender, which is meant to imply the negation of either 
sex. But with respect to this distribution, somewhat singular hath ob- 
tained in the structure of language. For, in correspondence to that dis- 
tinction of male and Female sex, which runs through all classes of 
animals, men have, in most languages, ranked a great number of inani- 
mate objects also, under the like distinctions of masculine and feminine. 
Thus we find it both in the Greek and Latin tongues. Gladius, a sword, 
for instance, is masculine ; sagitia, an arrow, is feminine ; and this 
assignation of sex to inanimate objects, this distinction of them into mas- 
culine and feminine, appears often to be entirely capricious ; derived from 
no other principle tfran the casual structure of the language, which 



LECT. VIII.j STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 75 

refers to a certain gender, words of a certain termination. In the Greek 
and Latin, however, all inanimate objects are not distributed into mascu- 
line and feminine ; but many of them are also classed, where all of them 
ought to have been, under the neuter gender; as, templum, a church ; 
sedile, a seat. 

But the genius of the French and Italian tongues differs, in this respect, 
from the Greek and Latin. In the French and Italian,, from whatever 
cause it has happened, so it is, that the neuter gender is wholly unknown, 
and that all their names of inanimate objects are put upon the same 
footing with living creatures ; and distributed, without exception, into 
masculine and feminine. The French have two articles, the masculine 
h, and the feminine la; and one or other of these is prefixed to all sub- 
stantive nouns in the language, to denote their gender. The Italians 
make the same universal use of their articles il, and Id, for the mascu- 
line ; and la, for the feminine. 

In the English language, it is remarkable that there obtains a pecu- 
liarity quite opposite. In the French and Italian, there is no neuter 
gender. In the English, when we use common discourse, all substantive 
nouns, that are not names of living creatures, are neuter without excep- 
tion. He, she, and it, are the marks of the three genders ; and we always 
use it, in speaking of any object where there is no sex, or where the 
sex is not known. The English is, perhaps, the only language in the 
known world (except the Chinese, which is said to agree with it in this 
particular) where the distinction of gender is properly and philoso- 
phically applied in the use of words, and confined, as it ought to be, to 
mark the real distinctions of male and female. 

Hence arises a very great and signal advantage of the English tongue, 
which it is of consequence to remark.* Though in common discourse, 
as I have already observed, we employ only the proper and literal dis- 
tinction of sexes ; yet the genius of the language permits us, whenever 
it will add beauty to our discourse, to make the names of inanimate 
objects masculine and feminine in a metaphorical sense ; and when we 
do so, we are understood to quit the literal style, and to use one of the 
figures of discourse. 

For instance ; if I am speaking of virtue, in the course of ordinary 
conversation, or of strict reasoning, I refer the word to no sex or gender; 
I say, "virtue is its own reward ;" or, "it is the law of our nature." 
But if I choose to rise into a higher tone ; if I seek to embellish and 
animate my discourse, I give a sex to virtue ; I say, " she descends from 
heaven;" "she alone confers true honour upon man;" "her gifts are 
the only durable rewards." By this means we have it in our power to 
vary our style at pleasure. By making a very slight alteration, we can 
personify any object that we choose to introduce with dignity ; and by 
this change of manner, we give warning that we are passing from the 
strict and logical, to the ornamented and rhetorical style. 

This is an advantage which, not only every poet, but every good 
writer and speaker in prose, is, on many occasions, glad to lay hold of> 
and improve ; and it is an advantage peculiar to our tongue ; no other 
language possesses it. For, in other languages, every word has one fixed 
gender, masculine, feminine, or neuter, which can, upon no occasion, 
be changed ; ccpsrtj, for instance, in Greek, virtus, in Latin, and la vertu, 

* The following observations on the metaphorical use of gender?, in the English 
language, are 1?iken from Mr< Karri?'? Herme& 



7G STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [LECT. VITi - 

in French, are uniformly feminine. She, must always be the pronoun 
answering to the word, whether you be writing in poetry or in prose, 
whether you be using the style of reasoning, or that of declamation ; 
whereas, in English, we can either express ourselves with the philoso- 
phical accuracy of giving no gender to things inanimate ; or by giving 
them gender, and transforming them into persons, we adapt them to the 
style of poetry, and, when it is proper, we enliven prose. 

It deserves to be further remarked on this subject, that when we em- 
ploy that liberty which our language allows, of ascribing sex to any in- 
animate object, we have not, however, the liberty of making it of what 
gender we please, masculine or feminine ; but are, in general, subjected 
to some rule of gender which the currency of language has fixed to that 
object. The foundation of that rule is imagined, by Mr. Harris, in his 
44 Philosophical Inquiry into the Principles of Grammar," to be laid in 
a certain distant resemblance, or analogy, to the natural distinction of 
the two sexes. 

Thus, according to him, we commonly give the masculine gender to 
those substantive nouns used figuratively, which are conspicuous for 
the attributes of imparting or communicating ; which are by nature 
strong and efficacious, either to good or evil ; or which have a claim to 
some eminence, whether laudable or not. Those again, he imagines. 
to be generally made feminine, which are conspicuous for the attributes 
©f containing, and of bringing forth ; which have more of the passive 
in their nature, than of the active ; which are peculiarly beautiful, or 
amiable ; or which have respect to such excesses as are rather feminine 
than masculine. Upon these principles he ipkes notice, that the sun is 
always put in the masculine gender with us, the moon in the feminine, 
as being the receptacle of the sun's light. The earth is, universally, 
feminine. A ship, a country, a city, are likewise made feminine, as 
receivers, or containers. God, in all languages, is masculine. Time, 
we make masculine, on account of its mighty efficacy ; virtue, feminine, 
from its beauty and its being the object of love. Fortune is always 
feminine. Mr. Harris imagines, that the reasons which determine the 
gender of such capital words as these, hold in most other languages, 
as well as the English. This, however, appears doubtful. A variety of 
circumstances, which seem casual to us, because we cannot reduce them 
to principles, must, unquestionably, have influenced the original forma- 
tion of languages : and in no article whatever does language appear to 
have been more capricious, and to have proceeded less according to fixed 
rule, than in the imposition of gender upon things inanimate ; especially 
among such nations as have applied the distinction of masculine and 
feminine to all substantive nouns. 

Having discussed gender, I proceed next to another remarkable pecu- 
liarity of substantive nouns, which, in the style of grammar, is called 
their declension by cases. Let us first consider what cases signify. In 
order to understand this', it is necessary to observe, that, after men had 
given names to external objects, had particularized them by means of the 
article, and distinguished them by number and gender, still their language 
remained extremely imperfect, till they had devised some method of 
expressing the relations which those objects bore, one toward another. 
The} r would find it of little use to have a name for man, lion, tree, river, 
without being able, at the same time, to signify how these stood with 
respect to fach other : whether; as approaching to, receding from, joined. 



LECT. VIII.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 



J i 



with, and the like. Indeed, the relations which objects bear to one 
another, are immensely numerous ; and therefore to devise names for 
them all, must have been among the last and most difficult refinements of 
language. But, in its most early periods, it was absolutely necessary to 
express, in some way or other, such relations as were most important, 
and as occurred most frequently in common speech. Hence the geni- 
tive, dative, and ablative cases of nouns, which express the noun itself, 
together with those relations of, to, from,, with, and by ; the relations which 
we have the most frequent occasion to mention. The proper idea then 
of cases in declension, is no other than an expression of the state, or 
relation which one object bears to another, denoted by some variation 
made upon the name of that object ; most commonly in the final 
letters, and by some languages, in the initial. 

All languages, however, do not agree in this mode of expression. 
The Greek, Latin, and several other languages, use declension. The 
English, French, and Italian, do not; or at most, use it very imperfectly. 
In place of the variations of cases, the modern tongues express the 
relations of objects, by means of the words called prepositions, which 
denote those relations, prefixed to the name of the object. English 
nouns have no case whatever except a sort of genitive, commonly form- 
ed by the addition of the letter s to the noun ; as when we say " Dry 
den's Poems," meaning the Poems of Dryden. Our personal pro- 
nouns have also a case, which answers to the accusative of the Latin, 
I, me; he, him; who, whom. There is nothing, then, or at least very 
little, in the grammar of our language, which corresponds to declension 
in the ancient languages. 

Two questions, respecting this subject, may be put. First, Which of 
these methods of expressing relations, whether that by declension, or 
that by prepositions, was the most ancient usage in language ? And next, 
Which of them has the best effect ? Both methods, it is plain, are the same 
as to the sense, and differ only in form. For the significancy of the 
Roman language would not have been altered, though the nouns, like 
ours, had been without cases,' provided they had employed prepositions: 
and though, to express a disciple of Plato, they had said, " Discipulus 
de Plato," like the modern Italians, in place of " Discipulus Platonis." 

Now, with respect to the antiquity of cases, although they may, on 
first view, seem to constitute a more artificial method than the other, of 
denoting relations, yet there are strong reasons for thinking that this was 
the earliest method practised by men. We find, in fact, that declensions 
and cases are used in most of what are called the mother tongues, or 
original languages, as well as in the Greek and Latin. And a very 
natural and satisfying account can be given why this usage should have 
early obtained. Relations are the most abstract and metaphysical ideas 
of any which men have occasion to form, when they are considered by 
themselves, and separated from the related object. It would puzzle any 
man, as has been well observed by an author on this subject, to give a 
distinct account of what is meant by such a word as of or from, when it 
stands by itself, and to explain all that may be included under it. The 
first rude inventors of language, therefore, would not, for a long while, 
arrive at such general terms. In place of considering any relation in the 
abstract, and devising a name for it, they would much more easily con- 
ceive it in conjunction with a particular object ; and they would express 
their conceptions of it, by varying the name of that object through all the 



78 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [LECT. VIII. 

different cases ; hominis, of a man ; homini, to a man ; homine, with a 
man, &c. 

But though this method of declension was, probably, the only method 
which men employed, at first, for denoting relations, yet, in progress of 
time, many other relations being observed, besides those which are sig- 
nified by the cases of nouns, and men also becoming more capable of 
general and metaphysical ideas, separate names were gradually invented 
for all the relations which occurred, forming that part of speech which 
we now call prepositions. Prepositions, being once introduced, they 
were found to be capable of supplying the place of cases, by being pre- 
fixed to the nominative of the noun. Hence, it came to pass, that as 
nations were intermixed by migrations and conquests, and were obliged 
to learn and adopt the languages of one another, prepositions supplanted 
the use of cases and declensions. When the Italian tongue, for instance, 
sprung out of the Roman, it was found more easy and simple, by the Gothic 
nations, to accommodate a few prepositions to the nominative of every 
noun, and to say, di Roma, al Roma, di Carthago, al Carthago, than to 
remember all the variety of terminations, Romce, Rom am, Carthaginis, 
Carthaginem, which the use of declensions required in the ancient nouns. 
By this progress we can give a natural account how nouns, in our modern 
tongues] become to be so void of declension : a progress which is fully 
illustrated in Dr. Adam Smith's ingenious Dissertation on the Formation 
of Languages. 

With regard to the other question on this subject, Which of these two 
methods is of the greater utility and beauty ? we shall find advantages* 
and disadvantages to be balanced on both sides. There is no doubt that, 
by abolishing cases, we have rendered the structure of modern languages 
more simple. We have disembarrassed it of all the intricacy which arose 
from the different forms of declension, of which the Romans had no fewer 
than five ; and from all the irregularities in these several declensions. 
We have thereby rendered our languages more easy to be acquired, and 
less subject to the perplexity of rules. But, though the simplicity and 
ease of language be great and estimable advantages, yet there are also 
such disadvantages attending the modern method, as leave the balance, on 
the whole, doubtful, or rather incline it to the side of antiquity. 

For, in the first place, by our constant use of prepositions for express- 
ing the relations of things, we have filled language with a multitude of 
those little words, which are eternally occurring in every sentence, and 
may be thought thereby to have encumbered speech, by an addition of 
terms; and by rendering it more prolix, to have enervated its force. In 
the second place, we have certainly rendered the sound of language less 
agreeable to the ear, by depriving it of that variety and sweetness, which 
arose from the length of words, and the change of terminations occa- 
sioned by the cases in the Greek and Latin. But in the third place, the 
most material disadvantage is, that, by this abolition of cases, and by 
a similar alteration, of which I am to speak in the next lecture, in the con- 
jugation of verbs, we have deprived ourselves of that liberty of transpo- 
sition in the arrangement of words, which the ancient languages enjoyed. 

In the ancient tongues, as I formerly observed, the different termina- 
tions produced by declension and conjugation, pointed out the reference 
of the several words of a sentence to one another, without the aid of 
juxtaposition ; suffered them to be placed, without ambiguity, in whatever 
order was most suited to give force to the meaning, or harmony to 



1JECT. VIII.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. 79 

the sound. But now, having none of those marks of relation incorpo- 
rated with the words themselves, we have no other w ay left us, of show- 
ing what words in a sentence are most closely connected in meaning, than 
that of placing them close by one another in the period. The meaning 
of the sentence is brought put in separate members and portions ; it is 
broken down and divided. Whereas the structure of the Greek and 
Roman sentences, by the government of their nouns, and verbs, presented 
the meaning so interwoven and compounded in all its parts, as to make us 
perceive it in one united view. The closing words of the period ascer- 
tained the relation of one member to another ; and all that ought to be 
connected in our idea, appeared connected in the expression. Hence, 
more brevity, more vivacity, more force. That luggage of particles, 
(as an ingenious author happily expresses it,) which we are obliged al- 
ways to carry along with us, both clogs style, and enfeebles sentiment.* 

Pronouns are the class of words most nearly related to substantive 
nouns; being, as the name imports, representatives, or substitutes, of 
nouns. /, thou, he, she, and it, are no other than an abridged way of nam- 
ing the persons, or objects, with which we have immediate intercourse, 
or to which we are obliged frequently to refer in discourse. Accord- 
ingly, they are subject to the same modifications with substantive nouns, 
of number, gender, and case. Only, with respect to gender, we may 
observe, that the- pronouns of the first and second person, as they are 
called, / and thou, do not appear to have had the distinctions of gender 
given them in any language ; for this plain reason, that, as they always 
refer to persons who are present to each other when they speak, their 
sex must appear, and therefore needs not be marked by a masculine or 
feminine pronoun. But, as the third person may be absent, or unknown, 
the distinction of gender there becomes necessary ; and accordingly, in 
English, it hath all the three genders belonging to it ; he, she, it. As to 
cases, even those languages which have dropped them in substantive 
nouns, sometimes retain more of them in pronouns for the sake of the 
greater readiness in expressing relations ; as pronouns are words of such 
frequent occurrence in discourse. In English, most of our grammarians 
hold the personal pronouns to have two cases, besides the nominative ; 
a genitive, and an accusative ; I, mine, me ; thou, thine, thee ; he, his, him ; 
who, whose, whom. 

In the first stage of speech, it is probable that the places of those pro- 
nouns were supplied by pointing to the object when present, and naming 
it when absent. For one can hardly think that pronouns were of early 
invention ; as. they are words of such a particular and artificial nature. 

* m T/he various terminations of the same word, whether verb or noun, are always 
conceived to be more intimately connected with the term which they serve to lengthen, 
than the additional, detached, and in themselves insignificant particles, which we are 
obliged to employ as connectives to our significant words. Our method gives almost 
the same exposure to the one as to the other, making the signiiicant parts, and the in- 
significant, equally conspicuous ; theirs much ofteuer sinks, as it were, the former 
into the hitter, at once preserving their use and hiding their weakness. Our modem 
languages may, in this respect, l>e compared to the art of the carpenter in its rudest 
slate ; when the union of the materials employed by the artizan, could be effected 
only by the help of those external and coarse implements, pins, nails, and cramps. — 
The ancient languages resemble the same art in its most improved state, after the in- 
vention of dovetail joints, grooves, andmortices ; when thus all the principal junctions 
;ue effected, by forming properly, the extremities or terminations of the pieces to be 
joined. For, by means of these, the union of the parts is rendered closer, while that 
by which that union is produced, is scarcely perceivable," The Philosophy of fthe 
"fir. by Dr. Campbell, vol. ii. p. 4 I 2. 



50 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [LECT. Vfifc 

I, J/iou, fte, ?'£, it is to be observed, are not names peculiar to any single 
object, but so very general, that they may be applied to all persons, of 
objects, whatever, in certain circumstances. It, is the most general term 
that can possibly be conceived, as it may stand for any one tiling in the 
universe of which we speak. At the same time, these pronouns have 
this quality, that in the circumstances in which they are applied, they 
never denote more than one precise individual ; which they ascertain 
and specify, much in the same manner as is done by the article. So that 
pronouns are, at once, the most general, and the most particular words 
in language. They are commonly the most irregular and troublesome 
w T ords to the learner, in the grammar of all tongues ; as being f he words 
most in common use, and subjected thereby to the greatest varieties. 

Adjectives, or terms of quality, such as great, litttb, black, white, yours, 
ours, are the plainest and simplest of all that class of words which are 
termed attributive. They are found in ail languages ; and, in all lan- 
guages, must have been very early invented ; as objects could not be 
distinguished from one another, nor any intercourse be carried on con- 
cerning them, till once names were given to their different qualities. 

I have nothing to observe in relation to them, except that singularity 
which attends them in the Greek and Latin, of having the same form 
given them with substantive nouns ; being declined, like them, by cases, 
and subjected to the like distinctions of number and gender. Hence it 
has happened that grammarians have made them belong to the same part 
of speech, and divided the noun into substantive and adjective ; an ar- 
rangement founded more on attention to the external form of words, than 
to their nature and force. For adjectives, or terms of quality, have not, 
by their nature, the least resemblance to substantive nouns, as they 
never express any thing which can possibly subsist by itself; which is 
the very essence of the substantive noun. They are, indeed, more akin 
to verbs, which, like them, express the attribute of some substance. 

It may, at first view, appear somewhat odd and fantastic, that adjec- 
tives should, in the ancient languages, have assumed so much the form of 
substantives ; since neither number, nor 'gender, nor cases, nor relations, 
have auj fehmg to do, in a proper sense, with mere qualities, such as 
good, or great, soft, or, hard. And yet, bonus, and magnus, and tener, 
have their singular and plural, their masculine and feminine, their geni- 
tives and datives, like any of the names of substances, or persons. But 
this can be accounted for, from the genius of these tongues. They 
avoided, as much as possible, considering qualities separately, or in the 
abstract. They made them a part, or appendage of the substance which 
they served to distinguish ; they made the adjective depend on its sub- 
stantive, and resemble it in termination, in number and gender, in order 
that the two might coalesce the more intimately, and be joined in the 
form of expression, as they were in the nature of things. The liberty of 
transposition, too, which those languages indulged, required such a 
method as this to be follpwed. For allowing the related words of a sen- 
tence to be placed at a distance from each other, it required the relation 
of adjectives to their proper substantives to be pointed out, by such simi- 
lar circumstances of form and termination, as, according to the grammati- 
cal style, should show their concordance.' When I say in English, the 
w ' Beautiful wife of a brave man," the juxtaposition of the words prevents 
all ambiguity. But when I say in Latin, " Formosa fortis viri uxor ;" 
it is only the agreement, in gender, number, and case, of the adjective 



LECT. lX.j STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. Si 

"formosa" which is the first word of the sentence, with the substan= 
live " uxor" whjch is the last word, that declares the meaning. 



LECTURE IX 



STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE.— ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 

Of the whole class of words that are called attributive, indeed* of all 
the parts of speech, the most complex, by far, is the verb. It is chiefly 
in this part of speech, that the subtile and profound metaphysic of lan- 
guage appears ; and* therefore, in examining the nature and different 
variations of the verb, there might be room for ample discussion. But, 
as I am sensible that such grammatical discussions, when they are pur- 
sued far, become intricate and obscure* I shall avoid dwelling any longer 
on this subject than seems absolutely necessary. 

The verb is so far of the same nature with the adjective, that it ex- 
presses, like it, an attribute, or property, of some person or thing. But 
it does more than this. For, in all verbs, in every language, there are 
no less than three things implied at once ; the attribute of some sub- 
stantive, an affirmation concerning that attribute, and time. Thus, 
when I say, " the sun shineth ;" shining is the attribute ascribed to the 
sun ; the present time is marked ;, and an affirmation is included, that 
this property of shining belongs, at that time, to the sun. The partici- 
ple " shining," is merely an adjective, Which denotes an attribute or pro- 
perty, and also expresses time ; but carries no affirmation. The infini- 
tive mood, " to shine," may be called the name of the verb ; it carries 
neither time nor affirmation ; but simply expresses that attribute, action* 
or state of things, which is to be the subject of the other moods and 
tenses. Hence the infinitive often carries the resemblance of a sub- 
stantive noun ; and both in English and Latin is sometimes constructed 
as such. As, " scire tuum nihil est." " Dulce et decorum est pro patria 
mori." And, in English, in the same manner : " To write well is diffi- 
cult ; to speak eloquently is still more difficult. 5 ' But as, through all the 
other tenses and moods, the affirmation runs, and is essential to them i 
" the sun shineth, was shining, shone, will shine* would have shone," &c. 
the affirmation seems to be that which chiefly distinguishes the verb 
from the other parts of speech, and gives it its most conspicuous power.. 
Hence there can be no sentence, or complete proposition, without a verb 
either expressed or implied. For, whenever we speak, we always mean 
to assert, that something is, or is not ; and the word which carries this 
assertion, or affirmation, is a verb. From this sort of eminence belong- 
ing to it, this part of speech hath received its name, verb, from the La- 
tin verbum* or the word, by way of distinction^ 

Verbs, therefore, from their importance and necessity in speech, musi; 
have been coeval with men's first attempts towards the formation of lan- 
guage : though, indeed, it must- have been the work of long time, to 
rear them up to that accurate and complex structure which they now 
possess. It seems very probable, as Dr. Smith has suggested, that the 
radical verb, or the first form of it, in most languages, would be, what 

L 



WZ STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. [LECT. 1%. 

we now call the impersonal verb. " It rains ; it thunders ; it is light ; 
it is agreeable j" and the like ; as this is the very simplest form of the 
verb, and merely affirms the existence of an event, or of a state of 
things. By degrees, after pronouns were invented, such verbs became 
personal, and were branched out into all the variety of tenses and moods. 

The tenses of the verb* are contrived to imply the several distinctions 
of time. Of these I must take some notice, in order to show the admi- 
rable accuracy with which language is constructed. We think commonly 
of no more than the three great divisions of time, into the past, the 
present, and the future ; and we might imagine, that if verbs had been 
so contrived, as simply to express these, no more was needful. But 
language proceeds with much greater subtilty. It splits time into its se- 
veral moments. It considers time as never standing still, but always 
flowing ; things past, as more or less perfectly completed ; and things 
future, as more or less remote, by different gradations. Hence the great 
variety of tenses in most tongues. 

The present may, indeed, be always considered as one indivisible 
point, susceptible of no variety. " I write, or, I am writing; scribo." 
But it is not so with the past. There is no language so poor, but it hath 
two or three tenses to express the varieties of it. Ours hath no fewer 
than four. 1. A past action may be considered as left unfinished ; which 
makes the imperfect tense, " I was writing ; scribebam." 2. A-s just 
now finished. This makes the proper perfect tense, which, in English, 
is always expressed by the help of the auxiliary verb, " I have writ- 
ten." 3. It may be considered as finished some time ago ; the particu- 
lar time left indefinite. " I wrote, scripsi ;" which may either signify, 
ct I wrote yesterday, or I wrote a twei vemonth ago." This is what gram- 
marians call an aorist, or indefinite past. 4. It may be considered as 
finished before something else*, which is also past. This is the plusquam- 
perfect. " I had written ; scripseram. I had written before I received 
his letter." 

Here we observe, with some pleasure, that we have an advantage over 
the Latins, who have only three varieties upon the past time. They 
have no proper perfect tense, or one which distinguishes an action just 
now finished, from an action that was finished some time ago. In both 
these cases, they must say, " scripsi." Though there be a manifest dif- 
ference in the tenses, which our language expresses, by this variation, '* I 
have written," meaning, I have just now finished writing ; and, " I 
wrote," meaning at some former time, since which, other things have 
intervened. This difference the Romans have no tense to express ; and 
therefore, can only do it by a circumlocution. 

The chief varieties in the future time are two ; a simple or indefinite 
future ; " I shall write ; scribam:" and a future, relating to something 
else, which is also future. " I shall have written ; scripsero." I shall 
have written before he arrives.* 

Besides tenses, or the power of expressing time, verbs admit the dis- 
tinction of voices, as they are called, the active and the passive ; accord- 
ing as the affirmation respects something that is done, or something 

* On the tenses of verbs, Mr. Harris's Hermes may be consulted, by such as de- 
sire to see them scrutinized with metaphysical accuracy ; and also the Treatise on 
?he Origin and Progress of Language,, vol. ii. p. 125, 



TECT. IX.] STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE. §§ 

tibat is suffered ; " I love, or I am loved." They admit also the distinc- 
tion of moods, which are designed to express the affirmation, whether 
active or passive, under different forms. The indicative mood, for in- 
stance, simply declares a proposition, " I write; I have written;" the im- 
perative requires, commands, threatens, "write thou ; let him write." 
The subjunctive expresses the proposition under the form of a condition, 
or in subordination to some other thing, to which a reference is made, 
"I might write, I could write, I should write, if the case were so and so." 
This manner of expressing an affirmation, under so many different forms, 
together also with the distinction of the three persons, J, thou, and he, 
constitutes what is called the conjugation of verbs, which makes so great 
apart of the grammar of all languages. 

It now clearly appears, as I before observed, that, of all the parts of 
speech, verbs are, by far, the most artificial and complex. Consider only, 
how many things are denoted by this single Latin word " amavissem, I 
would have loved." First, The person who speaks, "I." Secondly, An 
attribute or action of that person, " loving." Thirdly, An affirmation con- 
cerning that action. Fourthly, The past time denoted in that affirmation, 
", have loved:" and, Fifthly, A condition, on which the action is suspend- 
ed, " would have loved." It appears curious and remarkable, that words 
of this complex import, and with more or less of this artificial structure, 
are to be found, as far as we know, in ali languages of the world. 

Indeed the form of conjugation, or the manner of expressing all these 
varieties in the verb, differs greatly in different tongues. Conjugation is 
esteemed most perfect in those languages which, by varying either the 
termination or the initial syllable of the verb, express the greatest num- 
ber of important circumstances, without the help of auxiliary words. 
In the original tongues, the verbs are said to have few tenses, or expres- 
sions of time : but then their moods are so contrived as to express a 
great variety of circumstances and relations. In the Hebrew* for in- 
stance, they say, in one word, without the help of any auxiliary, not 
only " I have taught," but, " I have taught exactly, or often: I have been 
commanded to teach ; I have taught myself." The Greek, which is the 
most perfect of all the known tongues, is very regular and complete in all 
the tenses and moods. The Latin is formed on the same model, but more 
imperfect ; especially in the passive voice, which forms roost of the ten- 
ses by the auxiliary verb " s«m." 

In all the modern European tongues, conjugation is very defective. 
They admit i'ew varieties in the termination of the verb itself; but have 
almost constant recourse to their auxiliary verbs, throughout all the 
moods and tenses, both active ; and passive. Language has undergone a 
change in conjugation, perfectly similar to that which I showed, in the 
last lecture, it underwent with respect to declension. As prepositions, 
prefixed to the noun, superseded the'use of cases ; so the two great auxi- 
liary verbs, to have, and to be, with those other auxiliaries which we use 
in English, do, shall, will, may, and can, prefixed to the participle, super- 
sede, in a great measure, the different terminations of moods, and tenses, 
which formed the ancient conjugations. 

The alteration, in both cases, was owing to the same cause, and will be 
easily understood, from reflecting on what was formerly observed. The 
auxiliary verbs are, like prepositions, words of a general and abstract na- 
ture. They imply the different modifications of simple existence, con- 
sidered alone, and without reference to any particular thing. In the 



34 STRUCTURE OF LANGUAGE, « LECT. LV, 

early state of speech, the import of them would be incorporated, so to 
speak, with every particular verb in its tenses and moods, long before 
words were invented for denoting such abstract conceptions of existence., 
alone, and by themselves. But after those auxiliary verbs came, in the 
progress of language, to be invented and known, and to have tenses and 
moods given to them like other verbs ; it was found, that as they carried 
in their nature the force of that affirmation which distinguishes the verb, 
they might, by being joined with the participle which gives the meaning 
of the verb, supply the place of most of the moods and tenses. Hence, as 
the modern tongues began to rise out of the ruins of the ancient, this 
method established itself in the new formation of speech. Such words, 
for instance ; as, am, was, have, shall, being once familiar, it appeared 
more easy to apply these to any verb whatever ; as, I am loved ; I was 
loved ; I have loved ; than to remember that variety of terminations 
which were requisite in conjugating the ancient verbs, amor, nmabar, 
amavi, &c. Two or three varieties only, in the termination of the verb, 
were retained, as, love, loved, loving; and all the rest were dropt. The 
consequence, however, of this practice, was the same as that of abolish- 
ing declensions. It rendered language more simple and easy in its struct- 
ure, but withal, more prolix, and less graceful. This finishes all that 
seemed most necessary to be observed with respect to verbs. 

The remaining parts of speech, which are called the indeclinable 
parts, or that admit of no variations, will not detain us long. 

Adverbs are the first that occur. These form a very numerous class 
of words in every language, reducible, in general, to the head of attri^ 
butives ; as they serve to modify, or to denote some circumstance of an 
action, or of a quality, relative to its time, place, order, degree, and the 
other properties of it, which we have occasion to specify. They are, for 
the most part, no more than an abridged mode of speech, expressing, 
by one word, what might, by a circumlocution, be resolved into two or 
more words belonging to the other parts of speech. " Exceedingly," for 
instance, is the same as " in a high degree ;" "bravely," the same as v 
" with bravery or valour;" "here," the same as, " in this place;" "often, 
andseldom," the same as, " for many and for few times," and so of the rest. 
Hence, adverbs may be conceived as of less necessity, and of later in- 
troduction into the system of speech, than many other classes of words ; 
and accordingly, the great body of them are derived from other words 
formerly established in the language. 

Prepositions and conjunctions, are words more essential to discourse 
than the greatest part of adverbs. They form that class of words, 
called connectives, without which there could be no language; serving to 
express the relations which things bear one to another, their mutual in- 
fluence, dependencies, and coherence ; thereby joining words together 
into intelligible and significant propositions. Conjunctions are generally 
employed for connecting sentences, or members of sentences ; as, and, 
because, although, and the like. Prepositions are employed for connect- 
ing words, by showing the relation which one substantive noun bears to 
another ; as, of, from, to, above, below, &c. Of the force of these I had 
occasion to speak before, when treating of the cases and declensions of 
substantive nouns. 

It is abundantly evident, that all these connective particles must be of 
the greatest use in speech ; seeing they point out the relations and tran- 
sitions by which the mind passes from one idea to another. They are 



LECT. IX. ] THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 85 

the foundation of all reasoning, which is no other thing than the connex- 
ion of thoughts. And, there/ore, though among barbarous nations, and 
in the rude uncivilized ages of the world, the stock of these words might 
be small, it must always have increased, as mankind advanced in the arts 
of reasoning and reflection. The more that any nation is improved by 
science, and the more perfect their language becomes, we may naturally 
expect that it will abound more with connective particles ; expressing 
relations of things, and transitions of thought which had escaped a gross- 
er view. Accordingly, no- tongue is so full of them as the Greek, in con- 
sequence of the acute and subtile genius of that refined people. In 
every language, much of the beauty and strength of it depends on the 
proper use of conjunctions, prepositions, and those relative pronouns, 
which also serve the same purpose of connecting the different parts of 
discourse. It is the right, or wrong management of these, which chiefly 
makes discourse appear firm and compacted, or disjointed and loose ; 
which causes it to march with a smooth and even pace, or renders its 
progress irregular and desultory. 

I shall dwell no longer on the general construction of language. Al- 
low me, only, before I dismiss the subject, to observe, that dry and intri- 
cate as it may seem to some, it is, however, of great importance, and 
very nearly connected with the philosophy of the human mind. For, if 
speech be the vehicle, or interpreter, of the conceptions of our minds, an 
examination of its structure and progress cannot but unfold many things 
concerning the nature and progress of our conceptions themselves, and 
the operations of our faculties ; a subject that is always instructive to 
man. " Nequis," says Quintilian, an author of excellent judgment, "ne- 
quis tanquam par? a fastidiat grammatices elementa. Non quia magna? sit 
operae consonantes a vocalibus discernere, easque in semivocalium nu- 
merum,mutarumque partiri,sed quia interiora velut sacri hujus adeunti- 
bus, apparebit multa rerum subtilitas, quse non modo acuere ingenia pueri- 
lia, sed exercere altissimam quoque eruditionem ac scientiampossit."* i.4. 

Let us now come nearer to our own language. In this, and the pre- 
ceding lecture, some observations have already been made on its struc- 
ture. But it is proper that we should be a little more particular in the 
examination of it. 

The language which is, at present, spoken throughout Great Britain, 
is neither the ancient primitive speech of the island, nor derived from 
it ; but is altogether of foreign origin. The language of the first in-, 
habitants of our island, beyond doubt, was the Celtic, or Gaelic, com- 
mon to them with Gaul ; from which country, it appears, by many cir- 
cumstances, that Great Britain was peopled. This Celtic tongue, which 
is said to be very expressive and copious^, and is, probably, one of the 
most ancient languages in the world, obtained once in most of the west- 
ern regions of Europe. It was the language of Gaul, of Great Britain, 
of Ireland, and very probably, of Spain also ; till in the course of those 
revolutions which by means of the conquests, first, of the Romans, and 
afterward, of the northern nations, changed the government, speech, 

* "Let no man despise, as inconsiderable, the elements of grammar, because it may- 
seem to him a matter of small consequence, to show the distinction between vowels 
and consonants, and to divide the latter into liquids and mutes. But they who pene- 
trate into the innermost partsof this temple of science, will there discover suchrefine- 
ment and subtiUyofmatter,as is not onlyproper to sharpen the understandings of young 
men, but sufficient to give exercise for the most profound knowledge and erudition," 



36 THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. [LECT.IX. 

and, in a manner, the whole face of Europe, this tongue was gradually 
obliterated ; and now subsists only in the mountains of Wales, in the 
Highlands of Scotland, and among the wild Irish. For the Irish, the 
Welch, and the Erse, are no other than different dialects of the same 
tongue, the ancient Celtic. 

This, then, was the language of the primitive Britons, the first inha- 
bitants that we know of in our island y and continued so till the arrival 
of the Saxons in England, in the year of our Lord 450 ; who, having 
conquered the Britons, did not intermix with them, but expelled them 
from their habitations, and drove them, together with their language, into 
the mountains of Wales. The Saxons were one of those northern na- 
tions that overran Europe ; and their tongue, a dialect of the Gothic or 
Teutonic, altogether distinct from the Celtic, laid the foundation of the 
present English tongue. With some intermixture of Danish, a language, 
probably, from the same root with the Saxon, it continued to be spoken 
throughout the southern part of the island, till the time of William the 
Conqueror. He introduced his Norman, or French, as the language of 
the court, which made a considerable change in the speech of the nation; 
and the English which was spoken afterward, and continues to be spoken 
now, is a mixture of the ancient Saxon, and this Norman French, together 
with such new and foreign words as commerce and learning have, in pro- 
gress of time, gradually introduced. 

The history of the English language can, in this manner, be clearly 
traced. The language spoken in the Low Countries of Scotland, is now, 
and has been for many centuries, no other than a dialect of the English. 
How, indeed, or by what steps, the ancient Celtic tongue came to be 
banished from the Low Country in Scotland, and to make its retreat into 
the Highlands and islands, cannot be so well pointed out, as how the like 
revolution was brought about in England. Whether the southernmost 
part of Scotland was once subject to the Saxons, and formed a part of 
the kingdom of Northumberland ; or, whether the great number of En- 
glish exiles that retreated into Scotland, upon the Norman conquest, and 
upon other occasions, introduced into that country their own language, 
which afterward, by the mutual intercourse of the two nations, prevail- 
ed over the Celtic, are uncertain and contested points, the discussion of 
which would lead us too far from our subject. 

From what has been said, it appears that the Teutonic dialect is the 
basis of our present speech. It has been imported among us in three 
different forms, the Saxon, the Danish, and the Norman ; all which have 
mingled together in our language. A very great number of our words, 
too, are plainly derived from the Latin. These we had not directly 
from the Latin, but most of them, it is probable, entered into our 
tongue, through the channel of that Norman French, which William the 
Conqueror introduced. For, as the Romans had long been in full pos- 
session of Gaul, the language spoken in that country, when it was in- 
vaded by the Franks and Normans, was a sort of corrupted Latin p 
mingled with Celtic, to which was given the name of Romanshe : and 
as the Franks and Normans did not, like the Saxons in England, expel 
the inhabitants, but, after their victories, mingled with them ; the lan- 
guage of the country became a compound of the Teutonic dialect im- 
ported by these conquerors, and of the former corrupted Latin, Hence, 
the French language has always continued to have a very considerable 
affinity with the Latin ; and hence, a great number of words of Latin 



liECtf. IX.] THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE, «57 

origin, which were in use among the Normans in France, were intro- 
duced into our tongue at the conquest ; to which, indeed, many have 
since been added, directly from the Latin, in consequence of the great 
diffusion of Roman literature throughout all Europe. 

From the influx of so many streams, from the junction of so many 
dissimilar parts, it naturally follows that the English, like every com- 
pounded language, must needs be somewhat irregular. We cannot expect 
from it that correspondence of parts, that complete analogy in structure, 
which may be found in those simpler languages, which have been formed 
in a manner within themselves, and built on one foundation. Hence, as 
I before showed, it has but small remains of conjugation or declension ; 
and its syntax is narrow, as there are few marks in the words themselves, 
that can show their relation to each other, or in the grammatical style, 
point out either their concordance, or their government, in the sentence. 
Our words having been brought to us from several different regions, 
straggle, if we may so speak, asunder from each other ; and do not 
coalesce, so naturally in the structure of a sentence, as the words in the 
Greek and Roman tongues. 

But these disadvantages, if they be such, of a compound language, 
are balanced by other advantages that attend it ; particularly, by the 
number and variety of words with which such a language is likely to be 
enriched. Few languages are, in fact, more copious than the English. 
In all grave subjects, especially, historical, critical, political, andmoral 3 
no writer has the least reason to complain of the barrenness of our 
tongue. The studious, reflecting genius of the people, has brought 
together great store of expressions, on such subjects, from every quar- 
ter. We are rich too in the language of poetry. Our poetical style 
differs widely from prose, not in point of numbers only, but in the very- 
words themselves ; which shows what a stock and compass of words we 
have it in our power to select and employ, suited to those different occa- 
sions. Herein we are infinitely superior to the French, whose poetical 
language, if it were not distinguished by rhyme, would not be known to 
differ from their ordinary prose. 

It is chiefly, indeed, on grave subjects, and with respect to the strong- 
er emotions of the mind, that our language displays its power of expres- 
sion. We are said to have thirty words, at least, for denoting all the 
varieties of the passion of anger.* But, in describing the more delicate 
sentiments and emotions, our tongue is not so fertile. It must be con- 
fessed, that the French language far surpasses ours, in expressing the 
nicer shades of character ; especially those varieties of manner, temper> 
and behaviour, which are displayed in our social intercourse with one 
another. Let any one attempt to translate, into English, only a few pages 
of one of Marivaux's novels, and he will soon be sensible of our defi- 
ciency of expression on these subjects. Indeed, no language is so co- 
pious as the French for whatever is delicate, gay, and amusing. It is y 
perhaps, the happiest language for conversation in the known world ; but, 
on the higher subjects of composition, the English may be justly esteemed 
to excel it considerably. 

* Anger, wrath, passion, rage,fury,outrage,fiereeness, sharpness, animosity, choler^ 
resentment, heat, heart-burning ; to fume, storm, inflame, be incensed, to vex, kindle^ 
irritate, enrage, exasperate, provoke, fret; to be sullen, hasty, hot, rough, sour, 
n^evish, &c. Preface to Greenwood's Grammar, 



3S THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. [LECT. IX 

Language is generally understood to receive its predominant tincture 
from the national character of the people who speak it. We must not, 
indeed, expect that it will carry an exact and full impression of their 
genius and manners ; for, among all nations, the original stock of words 
which they received from their ancestors, remain as the foundation of 
their speech throughout many ages, while their manners undergo, perhaps, 
very great alterations. National character will, however, always have 
some perceptible influence on the turn of language : and the gayety and 
vivacity of the French, and the gravity and thoughtfulness of the English^ 
are sufficiently impressed on their respective tongues. 

From the genius of our language, and the character of those who 
speak it, it may be expected to have strength and energy. It is, indeed* 
naturally prolix : owing to the great number of particles and auxiliary 
verbs which we are obliged constantly to employ : and this prolixity 
must, in some degree* enfeeble it. We seldom can express so tnuch by 
one word as was done by the verbs, and by the nouns, in the Greek and 
Roman languages, Our style is less compact ; our conceptions being 
spread out among more words, and split, as it Were, into more parts, 
make a fainter impression when we utter them. Notwithstanding this 
defect, by our abounding in terms for expressing all the strong emotions 
of the mind, and by the liberty which we enjoy, in a greater degree 
than most nations, of compounding words, our language may be esteem- 
ed to possess considerable force of expression ; comparatively at leasts 
with the other modern tongues, though much below the ancient. The 
style of Milton alone, both in poetry and prose, is a sufficient proof, that 
the English tongue is far from being destitute of nerves and energy. 

The flexibility of a language, or its power of accommodation to dif- 
ferent styles and manners, so as to be either grave and strong, or easy 
and flowing, or tender and gentle, or pompous and magnificent, as occa- 
sions require", or as an author's genius prompts, is a quality of great 
importance in speaking and writing. It seems to depend upon three 
things; the copiousness of a language: the different arrangements of 
which its words are susceptible ; and the variety and beauty of the sound 
of those words, so as to correspond to many different subjects. Never 
did any tongue possess this quality so eminently as the Greek, which 
every writer of genius could so mould, as to make the style perfectly 
expressive of his own manner and peculiar turn. It had all the three 
requisites, which I have mentioned as necessary for this purpose. It 
joined to these the graceful variety of its different dialects ; and thereby 
readily assumed every sort of character which an author could wish, 
from the most simple and most familiar, up to the most majestic. The 
Latin, though a very beautiful language, is inferior, in this respect, to the 
Greek. It has more of a fixed character of stateliness and gravity. It 
is always firm and masculine in the tenourof its sound ; and is supported 
by a certain senatorial dignity, of which it is difficult for a writer to divest 
it wholly, on any occasion. Among the modern tongues, the Italian 
possesses a great deal more of this flexibility than the French. By its 
copiousness, its freedom of arrangement, and the, great beauty and har- 
mony of its sounds, it suits itself very happily to most subjects either in 
prose or in poetry ; is capable of the august and the strong, as well as 
the tender ; and seems to be, on the whole, the most perfect of all the 
modern dialects which have arisen out of the ruins of the ancient. Our 
own language, though not equal to the Italian in flexibility, yet is not 



fcECT. L\. : THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. g$ 

destitute of a considerable degree of this quality. If any one will con- 
sider the diversity of style which appears in some of our classics, that 
great difference of manner, for instance, which is marked by the style of 
Lord Shaftesbury, and that of Dean Swift, he will see, in our tongue, such 
a circle of expression, such a power of accommodation to the different 
taste of writers, as redounds not a little to its honour. 

What the English has been most taxed with, is its deficiency in har- 
mony of sound. But though every native is apt to be partial to the 
sounds of his own language, and may, therefore, be suspected of not 
being a fair judge in this point; yet, I imagine, there are evident grounds 
on which it may be shown, that this charge against our tongue has been 
carried too far. The melody of our versification, its power of support- 
ing poetical numbers, without any assistance from rhyme, is alone a 
sufficient proof that our language is far from being unmusical. Our verse 
is, after the Italian, the most diversified and harmonious of any of the 
modern dialects; unquestionably far beyond the French verse, in variety, 
sweetness, and melody. Mr. Sheridan has shown, in his lectures, that 
we abound more in vowel and diphthong sounds, than most languages ; and 
these too, so divided into long and short, as to afford a proper diversity 
in the quantity of our syllables. Our consonants, he observes, which 
appear so crowded to the eye on paper, often form combinations, not 
disagreeable to the ear in pronouncing, and, in particular, the objection 
which has been made to the frequent recurrence of the hissing conso- 
nant s in our language, is unjust and ill-founded. For, it has not been 
attended to, that very commonly, and in the final syllables especially, this 
letter loses altogether the hissing sound, and is transformed into a z-, 
which is one of the sounds on which the ear rests with pleasure ; as in 
has, these, those, loves, hears, and innumerable more, where, though the 
letter s be retained in writing, it has really the power of z, not of the 
common s. 

After all, however, it must be admitted, that smoothness, or beauty of 
sound, is not one of the distinguishing properties of the English tongue. 
Though not incapable of being formed into melodious arrangements, yet 
strength and expressiveness, more than grace, form its character. We 
incline, in general, to a short pronunciation of our words, and have 
shortened the quantity of most of those, which we borrow from the 
Latin, as orator, spectacle, theatre, liberty, and such like. Agreeable to 
this, is a remarkable peculiarity of English pronunciation, the throwing 
the accent farther back, that is, nearer the beginning of the word than is 
done by any other nation. In Greek and Latin, no word is accented far T 
ther back than the third syllable from the end, or what is called the ante- 
penult. But, in English, we have many words accented on the fourth, 
some on the fifth syllable from the end, as memorable, conveniency, ambu- 
latory, profitableness. The general effect of this practice of hastening 
the accent, or placing it so near the beginning of the word, is to give a 
brisk and a spirited, but at the same time, a rapid and hurried, and not a 
very musical, tone to the whole pronunciation of a people. 

'The English tongue possesses, undoubtedly, this property, that it is the 
most simple in its form and construction, of all the European dialects. It- 
is free from all intricacy of cases, declensions, moods and tenses. T 
words are subject to fewer variations from their original form than f 
of any other language. Its substantives have no distinction of y 
except what nature has made, find but one variation in case, V 

M 



00 y THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. [LECT,E£, 

lives admit of no change at all, except what expresses the degree of coh*= 
parison. Its verbs, instead of running through all the varieties of ancient 
conjugation, suffer no more than four or five changes in termination. By 
the help of a few prepositions and auxiliary verbs, all the purposes of 
significancy in meaning are accomplished ; while the words for the most 
part preserve their form unchanged. The disadvantages in point of ele- 
gance, brevity and force, which follow from this structure of our lan- 
guage, I have before pointed out. But, at the same time, it must be ad- 
mitted, that such a structure contributes to facility. It renders the acqui- 
sition of our language less laborious, the arrangement of our words 
more plain and obvious, the rules of our syntax fewer and more simple* 

I agree, indeed, with Dr. Lowth, (Preface to his Grammar) in think- 
ing that this very simplicity and facility of our language proves a cause of 
its being frequently written and spoken with less accuracy. It was neces- 
sary to study languages which were of a more complex and artificial form, 
with greater care. The marks of gender and case, the varieties of con- 
jugation and declension, the multiplied rules of syntax, were all to be 
attended to in speech. Hence language became more an object of art. 
Ft was reduced into form ; a standard was established ; and any depar- 
tures from the standard became conspicuous. Whereas, among us, lan- 
guage is hardly considered as an object of grammatical rule. We take it 
for granted, that a competent skill in it may be acquired without any 
study ; and that in a syntax so narrow and confined as ours, there is 
nothing which demands attention. Hence arises the habit of writing in 
a loose and inaccurate manner. 

I admit that no grammatical rules have sufficient authority to control 
the firm and established usage of language. Established custom in speak- 
ing and writing, is the standard to which we must at last resort for deter- 
mining every controverted point in language and style. But it will not 
follow from this, that grammatical rules are superseded as useless. In 
every language, which has been in any degree cultivated, there prevails 
a certain structure and analogy of parts, which is understood to give foun- 
dation to the most reputable usage of speech ; and which, in all cases, 
when usage is loose or dubious, possesses considerable authority. In 
every language, there are rules of syntax, which must be inviolably ob- 
served by all who would either write or speak with any propriety. For 
syntax is no other than that arrangement of words, in a sentence, which 
renders the meaning of each word, and the relation of all the words to 
one another, most clear and intelligible. 

All the rules of Latin syntax, it is true, cannot be applied to our lan- 
guage. Many of these rules arose from the particular form of their lan- 
guage, which occasioned verbs or prepositions to govern, some the geni- 
tive, some the dative, some the accusative or ablative case. But 
abstracting from these peculiarities, it is to be always remembered, that 
the chief and fundamental rules of syntax are common totheEnglish as well 
as the Latin tongue; and indeed, belong equally to all languages. For, in 
all languages, the parts which compose speech are essentially the same ; 
substantives, adjectives, verbs, and connecting particles : and wherever 
these parts of speech are found, there are certain necessary relations 
among them which regulate their syntax, or the place which they ought 
to possess in a sentence. Thus, in English, just as much as in Latin, the 
adjective must, by position, be made to agree with its substantive ; and 
the verb must agree with its nominative in person and number; because. 



LECT.X.] STYLE. %\ 

from the nature of things, a word, which expresses either a quality or 
an action, must correspond as closely as possible with the name of that 
thing whose quality, or whose action it expresses. Two or more sub- 
stantives, joined by a copulative, must always require the verbs or 
pronouns, to which they refer, to be placed in the plural number ; other- 
wise, their common relation to these verbs or pronouns is not pointed out. 
An active verb must, in every language, govern the accusative ; that is, 
clearly point out some substantive noun, as the object to which its action 
is directed. A relative pronoun must, in every form of speech, agree 
with its antecedent in gender, number and person ; and conjunctions, or 
connecting particles, ought always to couple like cases and moods ; that 
is, ought to join together words which are of the same form and state with 
each other. f mention these, as a few exemplifications of that funda- 
mental regard to syntax, which, even in such a language as ours, is abso- 
lutely requisite for writing or speaking with any propriety. 

Whatever the advantages or defects of the English language be, as it 
is our own language, it deserves a high degree of our study and attention, 
both with regard to the choice of words which we employ, and with re- 

fard to the syntax, or the arrangement of these words in a sentence. 
Ve know how much the Greeks and Romans, in their most polished and 
flourishing times, cultivated their own tongues. We know how much 
study both the French and the Italians have bestowed upon theirs. 
Whatever knowledge may be acquired by the study of other languages, 
it Can never be communicated with advantage, unless by such as can 
write and speak their own language well. Let the matter of an author 
be ever so good and useful, his compositions will always suffer in the pub- 
lic esteem, if his expression be deficient in purity and propriety. At 
the same time the attainment of a correct and elegant style, is an object 
which demands application and labour. If any imagine they can catch it 
merely by the ear, or acquire it by a slight perusal of some of our good 
authors, they will find themselves much disappointed. The many errors, 
even in point of grammar, the many offences against purity of language* 
which are committed by writers who are far from being contemptible, 
demonstrate, that a careful study of the language is previously requisite, 
in all who aim at writing it properly.* 



LECTURE X. 



STYLE.— PERSPICUITY AND PRECISION. 

Having finished the subject of language, I now enter on the considera- 
tion of style, and the rules that relate to it. 

* On this subject the reader ought to peruse Dr. Lowth's Short Introduction to 
English Grammar, with Critical Notes; which is the grammatical performance of 
highest authority that has appeared in our time, and in which he will see, what I 
have said, concerning the inaccuracies in language of some of our best writers, ful- 
ly verified. In Dr. Campbell's Philosophy of Rhetoric, he will likewise find many 
acute and ingenious observations, both on the English language, and on style in 
general. And Dr. Priestly's Rudiments of English Grammar will also be useful, 
toy pointing out several of the errors into which writers are apt to fall. 



9 1 PERSPICUITY IL~£CT. X 

It is not easy to give a precise idea of what is meant by style. The 
best definition I can give of it, is, the peculiar manner in which a man ex- 
presses his conceptions, by means of language. It is different from mere 
language, or words. The words which an author employs, may be pro- 
per and faultless ; and his style may, nevertheless, have great faults : it 
may be dry, or stiff, or feeble, or affected. Style has always some refer- 
ence to an author's manner of thinking. It is a picture of the ideas 
which arise in his mind, and of the manner in which they rise there ; 
and hence, when we are examining an author's composition, it is, in 
many cases, extremely difficult to separate the style from the sentiment. 
No wonder these two should be so intimately connected, as style is no- 
thing else than that sort of expression which our thoughts most readily 
assume. Hence, different countries have been noted for peculiarities of 
style, suited to their different temper and genius. The eastern nations 
animated their style with the most strong and hyperbolical figures. The 
Athenians, a polished and acute people, formed a style accurate, clear, 
and neat. The Asiatics, gay and loose in their manners, affected a style 
florid and diffuse. The like sort of characteristical differences are com- 
monly remarked in the style of the French, the English, and the Span- 
iards. In giving the general characters of style, it is usual to talk of a 
nervous, a feeble, or a spirited style ; which are plainly the characters of 
a writer's manner of thinking, as well as of expressing himself: so diffi- 
cult it is to separate these two things from one another. Of the genera! 
characters of style, I am afterward to discourse ; but it will be necessary 
to begin with examining the more simple qualities of it ; from the as- 
semblage of which, its more complex denominations, in a great measure, 
result. 

All the qualities of a good style may be ranged under two heads, per- 
spicuity and ornament. For all that can possibly be required of language, 
is, to convey our ideas clearly to the minds of others, and, at the same 
time in such a dress, as by pleasing and interesting them, shall most effec- 
tually strengthen the impressions which we seek to make. When both 
these ends are answered, we certainly accomplish every purpose for 
which we use writing and discourse. 

Perspicuity, it will be readily admitted, is the fundamental quality of 
style j* a quality so essential in every kind of writing, that, for the want 
of it, nothing can atone. Without this, the richest ornaments of style 
only glimmer through the dark ; and puzzle, instead of pleasing the 
reader. This, therefore, must be our first object, to make our meaning 
clearly and fully understood, and understood without the least difficulty. 
G Oratio,' says Quiniilian, * debet negligenter quoque audientibus esse 
aperta ; ut in animum audientis, sicut sol in oculos, etiamsi in eum non 
intendatur, occurrat. Quare, non solum ut intelligere possit, sed ne om- 
nino possit non intelligere curandum.'t If we are obliged to follow a 
writer with much care, to pause, and to read over his sentences a second 
time in order to comprehend them fully, he will never please us long. 
Mankind are too indolent to relish so much labour. They may pretend 

* "Nobis prima sit virtus, perspicuitas propria verba, rectus ordo, non in longum 
dilata conclusio ; nihil neque desit,neque superfluat," 

Quintix. lib. viii. 

f '* Discourse ought always to be obvious, even to the most careless and negligent 
hearer : so that the sense shall strike his mind, as the light of the sun does our eyes, 
though they are not directed upwards to it. We must study not only that every hear- 
tr may understand us, but that it shall be impossible for him not to understand irs." 



LECT. X.] PERSPICUITY, 93 

to admire the author's depth, after they have discovered his meaning ; 
but they will seldom be inclined to take up his work a second time. 

Authors sometimes plead the difficulty of their subject, as an excuse 
for the want of perspicuity. But this excuse can rarely, if ever, be admit- 
ted. For whatever a man conceives clearly, that it is in his power, if 
he will be at the trouble, to put into distinct propositions, or to express 
clearly to others ; and upon no subject ought any man to write, where he 
cannot think clearly. His ideas, indeed, may, very excusably, be on some 
subjects incomplete or inadequate ; but still, as far as they go, they 
ought to be clear ; and wherever this is the case, perspicuity, in ex- 
pressing them, is always attainable. The obscurity which reigns so 
much among many metaphysical writers, is, for the most part, owing to 
the indistinctness of their own conceptions. They see the object but in 
a confused light ; and, of course, can never exhibit it in a clear one to 
others. 

Perspicuity in writing is not to be considered as only a sort of negative 
virtue, or freedom from defect. It has higher merit : It is a degree of 
positive beauty. We are pleased with an author, we consider him as 
deserving praise, who frees us from all fatigue of searching for his mean- 
ing ; who carries us through his subject without any embarrassment or 
confusion ; whose style flows always like a limpid stream, where we see 
to the very bottom. 

The study of perspicuity requires attention, first, to single words and 
phrases, and then to the construction of sentences. I begin with treat- 
ing of the first, and shall confine myself to it in this lecture. 

Perspicuity, considered with respect to words and phrases, requires 
these three qualities in them, purity, propriety, and precision. 

Purity and propriety of language, are often used indiscriminately for 
each other ; and, indeed, they are very nearly allied. A distinction, 
however, obtains between them. Purity is the use of such words, and 
such constructions, as belong to the idiom of the language which we 
speak ; in opposition to words and phrases that are imported from other 
languages, or that are obsolete, or new coined, or used without proper 
authority. Propriety, is the selection of such words in the language, as 
the best and most established usage has appropriated to those ideas which 
we intend to express by them. It implies the correct and happy appli« 
cation of them, according to that usage, in opposition to vulgarisms or 
low expressions ; and to words and phrases, which would be less signi- 
ficant of the ideas that we mean to convey. Style may be pure, that is, 
it may all be strictly English, without Scoticisms or Gallicisms, or un- 
grammatical irregular expressions of any kind, and may, nevertheless, 
be deficient in propriety. The words may be ill chosen ; not adapted 
to the subject, nor fully expressive of the author's sense. He has taken 
all his words and phrases from the general mass of English language ; 
but he has made his selection among these words unhappily. Whereas, 
style cannot be proper without being also pure 3, and where both purity 
and propriety meet, besides making style perspicuous, they also render 
it graceful. There is no standard, either of purity or of propriety, but 
the practice of the best writers and speakers in the country. 

When I mentioned obsolete or new-coined words, as incongruous with 
purity of style, it will be easily understood, that some exceptions are to 
be made. On certain occasions, they may have grace. Poetry admits of 
greater latitude than prose, with respect to coining, or, at least, new 



94 PRECISION IN STYLE. 

compounding words ; yet, even here, this liberty should be used with a 
sparing hand. In prose, such innovations are more hazardous, and have 
a worse effect. They are apt to give style an affected and conceited 
air ; and should never be ventured upon, except by such, whose esta- 
blished reputation gives them some degree of dictatorial power over lan- 
guage. 

The introduction of foreign and learned words, unless where necessity 
requires them, should always be avoided. Barren languages may need 
such assistances : but ours is not one of these. Dean Swift, one of our 
most correct writers, valued himself much on using no words but such 
as were of native growth ; and his language may, indeed, be considered 
as a standard of the strictest purity and propriety, in the choice of words. 
At present, we seem to be departing from this standard. A multitude of 
Latin words have, of late been, poured in upon us. On some occasions, 
they give an appearance of elevation and dignity to style. But often, 
also, they render it stiff and forced : and, in general, a plain, native 
style, as it is more intelligible to all readers, so, by a proper manage- 
ment of words, it may be made equally strong and expressive with this 
Latinised English. 

Let us now consider the import of precision in language, which, as it 
is the highest part of the quality denoted by perspicuity, merits a full ex- 
plication ; and the more, because distinct ideas are, perhaps, not com- 
monly formed about it. 

The exact import of precision, may be drawn from the etymology of 
the word. It comes frome ' praecidere,' to cut off : it imports retrench- 
ing all superfluities, and pruning the expression, so as to exhibit neither 
more nor less than an exact copy of his idea who uses it. I observed 
before, that it is often difficult to separate the qualities of style from the 
qualities of thought ; and it is found so in this instance. For, in order 
to write with precision, though this be properly a quality of style, one 
must possess a very considerable degree of distinctness and accuracy in 
his manner of thinking. 

The words which a man uses to express his ideas, may be faulty in 
three respects : they may either not express that idea which the author 
intends, but some other which only resembles, or is a-kin to it ; or, they 
may express that idea, but not quite fully and completely ; or, they may- 
express it, together with something more than he intends. Precision 
stands opposed to all these three faults ; but chiefly to the last. In an 
author's writing with propriety, his being free of the two former faults 
seems implied. The words which he uses are proper ; that is, they ex- 
press that idea which he intends, and they express it fully j but to be 
precise, signifies, that they express that idea, and no more. There is 
nothing in his words which introduces any foreign idea, any superfluous 
unseasonable accessary, so as to mix it confusedly with the principal ob- 
ject, and thereby to render our conception of that object loose and indis- 
tinct. This requires a writer to have, himself, a very clear apprehension 
of the object he means to present to us ; to have laid fast hold of it in his 
mind ; and never to waver in any one view he takes of it ; a perfection, 
indeed, to which few writers attain. 

The use and importance of precision, may be deduced from the nature 
of the human mind. It never can view, clearly and distinctly, above 
one object at a time. If it must look at two or three together, especially 
objects among which there is resemblance or connexion, it finds itself 



L«ECT. X ? j PRECISION IN STYLE, 95 

confused and embarrassed. It cannot clearly perceive in what they 
agree, and in what they differ. Thus, were any object, suppose some 
animal, to be presented to me, of whose structure I wanted to form a dis- 
tinct notion, I would desire all its trappings to be taken off, I would re- 
quire it to be brought before me by itself, and to stand alone, that there 
might be nothing to distract my attention. The same is the case with 
words. If, when you would inform me of your meaning, you also tell 
me more than what conveys it ; if you join foreign circumstances to the 
principal object ; if by unnecessarily varying the expression, you shift 
the point of view, and make me see sometimes the object itself, and 
sometimes another thing that is connected with it ; you thereby oblige 
me to look on several objects at once, and I lose sight of the principal. 
You load the animal you are showing me, with so many trappings and 
collars, and bring so many of the same species before me, somewhat re- 
sembling, and yet somewhat differing, that I see none of them clearly. 

This forms what is called a loose style ; and is the proper opposite 
to precision. It generally arises from using a superfluity of words. 
Feeble writers employ a multitude of words to make themselves under- 
stood, as they think, more distinctly ; and they only confound the reader. 
They are sensible of not having caught the precise expression, to con- 
vey what they would signify ; they do not, indeed, conceive their own 
meaning very precisely themselves ; and therefore help it out, as they 
can, by this and the other word, which may, as they suppose, supply 
the defect, and bring you somewhat nearer to their idea : they are al- 
ways going about it, and about it, but never just hit the thing. The 
image, as they set it before you, is always seen double ; and no double 
image is distinct. When an author tells me of his hero's courage in the 
day of battle, the expression is precise, and 1 understand it fully. But 
if, from the desire of multiplying words, he will needs praise his cou- 
rage and fortitude ; at the moment he joins these words together, my 
idea begins to waver. He means to express one quality more strongly ; 
but he is, in truth, expressing two. Courage resists danger ; fortitude 
supports pain. The occasion of exerting each of these qualities is dif- 
ferent ; and being led to think of both together, when only one of thena 
should be in my view, my view is rendered unsteady, and my conception 
of the objects indistinct. 

From what I have said, it appears that an author may, in a qualified 
sense, be perspicuous, while yet he is far from being precise. He uses 
proper words, and proper arrangement ; he gives you the idea as clear 
as he conceives it himself; and so far he is perspicuous ; but the ideas 
are not very clear in his own mind ; they are loose and general ; and, 
therefore, cannot be expressed with precision. All subjects do not 
equally require precision. It is sufficient, on many occasions, that we 
have a general view of the meaning. The subject, perhaps, is of the 
known and familiar kind ; and we are in no hazard of mistaking the 
sense of the author, though every word which he uses be not precise 
and exact. 

Few authors, for instance, in the English language, are more clear and 
perspicuous, on the whole, than Atchuishop Tdlotson, and Sir William 
Temple ; yet neither of them are remarkable for precision. They are 
loose and diffuse ; and accustomed to express their meaning by several 
words, which show you fully whereabouts it lies, rather than to single 
out those expressions, which would convey clearly the idea which they 



f»6 PRECISION m STYLE. [LECT. X, 

have in view, and no more. Neither, indeed, is precision the prevail- 
ing character of Mr* Addison's style ; although he is not so deficient in 
this respect as the other two authors. 

Lord Shaftesbury's faults, in point of precision, are much greater 
than Mr. Addison's ; and the more unpardonable, because he is a pro- 
fessed philosophical writer : who, as such, ought, above all things, to 
have studied precision. His style has both great beauties and great 
faults ; and on the whole, is by no means a safe model for imitation. 
Lord Shaftesbury was well acquainted with the power of words ; those 
which he employs are generally proper and well sounding ; he has 
great variety of them; and his arrangement, as shall be afterward 
shown, is commonly beautiful. His defect, in precision, is not owing so 
much to indistinct or confused ideas, as to perpetual affectation. He is 
fond, to excess, of the pomp and parade of language ; he is never 
satisfied with expressing any thing clearly and simple ; he must always 
give it the dress of state and majesty. Hence perpetual circumlocutions, 
and many words and phrases employed to describe somewhat, that would 
have been described much better by one of them. If he has occasion 
to mention any person or author, he very rarely mentions him by his 
proper name. In the treatise, entitled, Advice to an Author, he des- 
cants for two or three pages together upon Aristotle, without once 
naming him in any other way, than, the master critic, the mighty genius, 
and judge of art, the prince of critics, the grand master of art, and con- 
summate philologist. In the same way, the grand poetic sire, the phi- 
losophical patriarch, and his disciple of noble birth and lofty genius, are 
the only names by which he condescends to distinguish Homer, Socrates, 
and Plato, in another passage of the same treatise. This method of 
distinguishing persons is extremely affected ; but it is not so contrary 
to precision, as the frequent circumlocutions he employs for all moral 
ideas ; attentive, on every occasion, more to the pomp of language, than 
to the clearness which he ought to have studied as a philosopher. The 
moral sense, for instance, after he had once defined it, was a clear term; 
but, how vague becomes the idea, when in the next page he calls it, 
* That natural ^ffection, and anticipating fancy, which makes the sense 
of right and wrong ?' Self-examination, or reflection on our own con- 
duct, is an idea conceived with ease ; but when it is wrought into all 
the forms of ' A man's dividing himself into two parties, becoming a 
self-dialogist, enteriag into partnership with himself, forming the dual 
number practically within himself; 7 we hardly know what to make of it. 
On some occasions, he so adorns, or rather loads with words, the plain- 
est and simplest propositions, as, if not to obscure, at least, to enfeeble 
them. 

In the following paragraph, for example, of the inquiry concerning 
virtue, he means to show, that, by every ill action we hurt our mind, as 
much as one who should swallow poison, or give himself a wound, would 
hurt his body. Observe what a redundancy of words he pours forth : 
s Now if the fabric of the mind or temper appeared to us such as it really 
is ; if we saw it impossible to remove hence any one good or orderly 
affection, or to introduce any ill or disorderly one, without drawing on, 
in some degree, that dissolute state which, at its height, is confessed to be 
so miserable ; it would then, undoubtedly, be confessed, that since no ill, 
immoral, or unjust action, can be committed, without either a new inroad 
^ind breach on the temper and passions, or a further advancing of tha f 



LECT. X] PRECISION IN STYLE- §$ 

execution already done : whdever did ill, or acted in prejudice to his 
integrity, good-nature, or worth, would, of necessity, act with greater 
cruelly towards himself, than he who scrupled not to swallow what was 
poisonous, or who, with his own hands, should voluntarily mangle or 
wound his outward form or constitution, natural limbs or body.'* Here 9 
to commit a bad action, is, first, ' To remove a good and orderly affection, 
and to introduce an ill or disorderly one ;' next, it is, ' To commit an 
action that is ill, immoral, and unjust ;* and in the next line, it is, * To 
do ill, or to act in prejudice of integrity, good-nature, and worth ;' nay, 
so very simple a thing as a man's wounding himself, is, ' To mangle, or 
wound, his outward form or constitution, his natural limbs or body." 
Such superfluity of words is disgustful to every reader of correct taste ; 
and serves no purpose but to embarrass and perplex the sense. This 
sort of style is elegantly described by Q,uintilian, « Est in quibusdam tur- 
ba inanium verborem, qui dum communemloquendi morem reformidant, 
ducti specie nitoris, circumeunt omnia copiosa loquacilate quae dicere 
volunt.'t Lib. vii. cap. 2. 

The great source of a loose style, in opposition to precision, is the 
injudicious use of those words termed synonymous. They are called 
synonymous, because they agree in expressing one principal idea ; but, 
for the most part, if, not always, they express it with some diversity in 
the circumstances. They are varied by some accessary idea which 
every word introduces, and which forms the distinction between them. 
Hardly, in any language, are there two words that convey precisely the 
same idea •; a person thoroughly conversant in the propriety of the lan- 
guage, will always be able to observe something that distinguishes them. 
As they are like different shades of the same colour, an accurate writer 
can employ them to great advantage, by using them, so as to heighten and 
to finish the picture which he gives us. He supplies by one, what was 
wanting in the other, to the force, or to the lustre of the image which 
he means to exhibit. But, in order to this end, he must be extremely- 
attentive to the choice which he makes of them. For the bulk of writers 
are very apt to confound them with each other ; and to employ them 
carelessly, merely for the sake of filling up a period, or of rounding and 
diversifying the language, as if their signification were exactly the same, 
while, in truth, it is not. Hence a certain mist and indistinctness is un- 
warily thrown over style. 

In the Latin language, there are no two words we should more readily 
take to be synonymous, than amare and diligere. Cicero, however, has 
shown us, that there is a very clear distinction betwixt them. •' Quid 
ergo," says he, in one of his epistles, " tibi commendem eum quern tu ipse 
diligis ? Sed tamen ut scires eum non a me diligi solum, verum etiam 
amari, ob earn rem tibi haec scribo."J In the same manner tutus and 
securus, are words which we should readily confound ; yet their meaning 
is different. Tutus, signifies out of danger ; securus, free from the 
dread of it. Seneca has elegantly marked this distinction : " Tuta 
scelera esse possunt, secura non possunt.'\) In our own language, very 

Characterist. Vol. ii. p. $5. 

v " A crowd of unmeaning words is brought together by some authors, who, afraid 
of expressing themselves after a common and ordinary manner, and allured by an 
appearance of splendour surround every thing which they mean to say with a certain 
copious loquacity/* 

i Ad.FarnU, !, 13. Ep. 47, . § Epis, 97. 



£$ PRECISION IN STYLE. [1LECT.S. 

many instances might be given of a difference in meaning among words 
reputed synonymous ; and, as the subject is of importance, I shall now 
point out some of these. The instances which I am to give, may them- 
selves be of use ; and they will serve to show the necessity of attending, 
with care and strictness, to the exact import of words, if ever we would 
write with propriety or precision. 

Austerity, severity, rigour. Austerity, relates to the manner of living; 
severity^ of thinking ; rigour^ of punishing. To austerity, is opposed 
effeminacy ; to severity, relaxation ; to rigour, clemency. A hermit, 
is austere in his life ; a casuist, severe in his application of religion or 
law; a judge, rigorous in his sentences. 

Custom, habit. Custom, respects the action; habit, the actor. By 
custom, we mean the frequent repetition of the same act ; by habit, the 
effect which that repetition produces on the mind or body. By the 
custom of walking often in the streets, one acquires a habit of idleness. 

Surprised, astonished, amazed, confounded. I am surprised, with what 
is new or unexpected ; I am astonished, at what is vast or great ; I am 
amazed, with what is incomprehensible ; I am confounded, by what is 
shocking-or terrible. 

Desist, renounce, quit, leave off. Each of these words implies some pur- 
suit or object relinquished ; but from different motives. We desist, from 
the difficulty of accomplishing. We renounce, on account of the disa- 
greeableness of the object, or pursuit. We quit, for the sake of some 
other thing which interests us more ; and we leave off because we are 
weary of the design. A politician desists from his designs, when he 
finds they are impracticable; he renounces the court, because he has been 
affronted by it ; he quits ambition for study or retirement ; and leaves off 
his attendance on the great, as he becomes old and weary of it. 

Pride, vanity. Pride, makes us esteem ourselves ; vanity, makes us 
desire the esteem of others. It is just to say, as Dean Swift has done, 
that a man is too proud to be vain. 

Haughtiness, disdain. Haughtiness, is founded on the high opinion we 
entertain of ourselves ; disdain, on the low opinion we have of others. 

To distinguish, to separate. We distinguish, what we want not to con- 
found with another thing ; we separate, what we want to remove from it. 
Objects are distinguished from one another, by their qualities. They are 
separated, by the distance of time or place. 

To weary, to fatigue. The continuance of the same thing wearies us ; 
labour fatigues us. I am weary with standing; I am fatigued with walk- 
ing. A suiter wearies us by his perseverance : fatigues us by his impor- 
tunity. 

To abhor, to detest. To abhor, imports, simply, strong dislike ; to de- 
test, imports also strong disapprobation. One abhors being in debt ; he 
detests treachery. 

To invent, to discover. We invent things that are new ; we discover 
what was before hidden. Galileo invented the telescope ; Harvey dis- 
covered the circulation of the blood. 

Only, alone. Only, imports that there is no other of the same kind ; 
alone, imports being accompanied by no other. An only child, is one who 
has neither brother nor sister ; a child alone, is one who is left by itself 
There is a difference, therefore, in precise language betwixt these two 
phrases, ' virtue only makes us happy;' and, ' virtue alone makes us 
happy.' Virtue only makes us happy, imports, that nothing else can do 



LECT. X.J DECISION IN STYLE. Q$ 

it. Virtue alone makes us happy, imports, that virtue, by itself, or un- 
accompanied with other advantages, is sufficient to do it. 

Entire, complete. A thing is entire, by wanting none ofits parts ; com^ 
plete, by wanting none of the appendages that belong to it. A man may 
have an entire house to himself; and yet not have one complete apart- 
ment. 

Tranquillity, peace, calm. Tranquillity, respects a situation free from 
trouble, considered in itself ; peace, the same situation with respect to 
any causes that might interrupt it ; calm, with regard to a disturbed situ- 
ation going before, or following it. A good man enjoys tranquillity in 
himself; peace, with others ; and calm, after the storm. 

A difficulty, an obstacle. A difficulty, embarrasses ; an obstacle, stops 
us. We remove the one ; we surmount the other. Generally, the first 
expresses somewhat arising from the nature and circumstances of the af- 
fair ; the second, somewhat arising from a foreign cause. Philip found 
difficulty in managing the Athenians from the nature of their dispositions ; 
but the eloquence of Demosthenes was the greatest obstacle to his de- 
signs. 

Wisdom, prudence. Wisdom, leads us to speak and act what is most 
proper. Prudence, prevents our speaking or acting improperly. A wise 
man employs the most proper means for success ; a prudent man, the 
safest means for not being brought into danger. 

Enough, sufficient. Enough, relates to the quantity which one wishes 
to have of any thing. Sufficient, relates to the use that is to be made of 
it. Hence, enough, generally imports a greater quantity than sufficient 
does. The covetous man never has enough ; although he has what is 
sufficient for nature. 

To avow, to acknowledge, to confess. Each of these words imports the 
affirmation of a fact, but in very different circumstances. To avow, sup- 
poses the person to glory in it ; to acknowledge, supposes a small degree 
of faultiness, which the acknowledgment compensates ; to confess, sup- 
poses a higher degree of crime. A patriot avows his opposition to a bad 
minister, and is applauded ; a gentleman acknowledges his mistake, and 
is forgiven ; a prisoner confesses the crime he is accused of, and is pun- 
ished. 

To remark, to observe. We remark in the way of attention, in order 
to remember ; we observe, in the way of examination, in order to judge. 
A traveller remarks the most striking objects he sees : a general observes 
all the motions of his enemy. 

Equivocal, ambiguous. An equivocal expression, is one which has one 
sense open, and designed to be understood ; another sense concealed and 
understood only by the person who uses it. An ambiguous expression is 
one which has apparently two senses, and leaves us at a loss which of 
them to give it. An equivocal expression is used with an intention to de- 
ceive ; an ambiguous one, when it is used with design, is, with an inten- 
tion not to give full information. An honest man will never employ an 
equivocal expression ; a confused man may often utter ambiguous ones, 
without any design. I shall only give one instance more. 

With, by. Both these particles express the connexion between some 
instrument, or means of effecting an end, and the agent who employs it ; 
but with, expresses a more close and immediate connexion ; by, a more 
remote one. We kill a man with a sword ; he dies by violence. The 
criminal is bound with ropes by the executioner. The proper distinction 



^00 PRECISION IN STYLE. [LECT. X 

in the use of these particles, is elegantly marked in a passage of Dr. Ro- 
bertson's History of Scotland. When one of the old Scottish kings was 
making an inquiry into the tenure by which his nobles held their lands, 
they started up, and drew their swords ; " By these," said they, u we ac- 
quired our lands, and with these we will defend them." " By these we ac- 
quired ourland ;" signifies the more remote means of acquisition by force 
and martial deeds ; and, " with these we will defend them ;" signifies the 
immediate direct instrument, the sword which they would employ in 
their defence. 

These are instances of words, in our language, which, by careless wri- 
ters, are apt to be employed as perfectly synonymous, and yet are not so. 
Their significations approach, but are not precisely the same. The more 
the distinction in the meaning of such words is weighed and attended to, 
the more clearly and forcibly shall we speak or write.* 

From all that has been said on this head, it will now appear,that, in or- 
der to write or speak with precision, two things are especially requisite : 
one that an author's own ideas be clear and distinct ; and the other, that 
we have an exact and full comprehension of the force of those words 
which he employs. Natural genius is here required ; labour and atten- 
tion still more. Dean Swift is one of the authors, in our language, most 
distinguished for precision of style. In his writings, we seldom or never 
iind vague expressions, and synonymous words carelessly thrown toge- 
ther. His meaning is always clear and strongly marked. 

I had occasion to observe before, that though all subjects of writing or 
discourse demand perspicuity, yet all do not require the same degree of 
that exact precision which I have endeavoured to explain. It is, indeed, 
in every sort of writing, a great beauty to have, at least, some measure of 
precision, in distinction from that loose profusion of words which imprints 
no clear idea on the reader's mind. But we must, at the same time, be 
on our guard, lest too great a study of precision, especially in subjects 
where it is not strictly requisite, betray us into a dry and barren style ; 
lest, from the desire of pruning too closely, we retrench all copiousness 
and ornament. Some degree of this failing may, perhaps, be remarked 
in Dean Swift's serious works. Attentive only to exhibit his ideas clear 
and exact, resting wholly on his sense and distinctness, he appears to re- 
ject, disdainfully, all embellishment, which, on some occasions, may be 
thought to render his manner somewhat hard and dry. To unite copious- 
ness and precision, to be flowing and graceful, and at the same time cor- 
rect and exact in the choice of every word, is, no doubt, one of the highest 
and most difficult attainments in writing. Some kinds of composition may 
require more of copiousness and ornament ; others, more of precision 
and accuracy ; nay, in the same composition, the different parts of it may 
demand a proper variation of manner. But we must study never to 

* In French there is a very useful treatise on this subject, the Abbe Girard's Syno- 
n'gmes Frangoises, in which he has made a large collection of such apparent syno- 
nymes in the language, and shown, with accuracy, the difference in their significa- 
tion. It is much to be wished, that some such work were undertaken for our tongue., 
and executed with equal taste and judgment. Nothing would contribute more to 
precise and elegant writing. In the mean time, this French Treatise may be per- 
used with considerable profit. It will accustom persons to weigh, with attention, 
the force of words ; and will suggest several distinctions betwixt synonymous terms 
in our own language, analogous to those which he has pointed out in the French ; 
and, accordingly, several of the instances above given, were suggested by the 
work of this author. 



LECT.XI.] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 101 

sacrifice, totally, any one of these qualities to the other ; and by a pro- 
per management, both of them may be made fully consistent, if our own 
ideas be precise, and our knowledge and stock of words be, at the same 
time, extensive. 



LECTURE XL 



STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 

Having begun to treat of style in the last lecture, I considered its fun- 
damental quality, perspicuity. What I have said of this, relates chiefly 
to the choice of words. Trom words I proceed to sentences ; and as, in 
all writing and discourse, the proper composition and structure of senten- 
ces is of the highest importance, I shall treat of this fully. Though 
perspicuity be the general head under which I, at present, consider lan- 
guage, I shall not confine myself to this quality alone, in sentences, but 
shall inquire also, what is requisite for their grace and beauty : that I 
may bring together, under one view, all that seems necessary to be at- 
tended to in the construction and arrangement of words in a sentence. 

It is not easy to give an exact definition of a sentence, or period, farther, 
than as it always implies some one complete proposition or enunciation of 
thought. Aristotle's definition is, in the main, a good one : " Aej>is e%v<r» 
£tg%qv kui reXevrw ku$ osyrajv, kui peye8os evrvvoirrov : A form of speech which 
hath a beginning and an end within itself, and is of such a length as to be 
easily comprehended at once." This, however, admits of great latitude. 
For a sentence, or period, consists always of component parts, which are 
called its members ; and as these members may be either few or many, 
and may be connected in several different ways, the same thought, or men- 
tal proposition, may often be either brought into one sentence, or split 
into two or three, without the material breach of any rule. 

The first variety that occurs in the consideration of sentences, is the 
distinction of long and short ones. The precise length of sentences, as 
to the number of words, or the number of members, which may enter into 
them, cannot be ascertained by any definite measure. Only, it is ob- 
vious, there may be an extreme on either side. Sentences, immoderate- 
ly long, and consisting of too many members, always transgress some one 
or other of the rules which I shall mention soon, as necessary to be ob- 
served in every good sentence. In discourses that are to be spoken, re- 
gard must be had to the easiness of pronunciation, which is not consistent 
with too long periods. In compositions where pronunciation has no place, 
still, however, by using long periods too frequently, an author overloads 
the reader's ear, and fatigues his attention. For long periods require, 
evidently, more attention than short ones, in order to perceive clearly 
the connexion of the several parts, and to take in the whole at one view. 
At the same time, there may be an excess in too many short sentences 
also ; by which the sense is split and broken, the connexion of thought 
weakened, and the memory burdened,, by presenting to it a long succes« 
sion of minute objects. 
With regard to the length and construction of sentences, the French 



103 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [LECT.Xf, 

eritics'make a very just distinction of style, into style periodique, and style- 
coupe. The style periodique is, where the sentences are composed of se- 
veral members linked together, and hanging upon one another; so that the 
sense of the whole is not brought out till the close. This is the most 
pompous, musical, and oratorical manner of composing ; as in the fol- 
lowing sentence of Sir William Temple; " If you look about you, and 
consider the lives of others as well as your own ; if you think how few 
are born with honour, and how many die without name or children ; 
how little beauty we see, and how few friends we hear of; how many 
diseases, and how much poverty there is in the world ; you will fall down 
upon your knees, and, instead of repining at one affliction, will admire 
so many blessings which you have received from the hand of God." 
(Letter to Lady Essex.) Cicero abounds with sentences constructed afc 
ter this manner. 

The style coupe is, where the sense is formed into short independent 
propositions, each complete within itself; as in the following of Mr. 
Pope : " I confess it was want of consideration that made me an author. 
I writ, because it amused me. I corrected, because it was as pleasant to 
me to correct as to write. I published, because, I was told, I might 
please such as it was a credit to please." (Preface to his works.) This 
is very much the French method of writing ; and always suits gay and 
easy subjects. The style periodique, gives an air of gravity and dignity 
to composition. The style coupe, is more lively and striking. According 
to the nature of the composition, therefore, and the general character it 
ought to bear, the one or other may be predominant But, in almost 
every kind of composition, the great rule is to intermix them. For the 
ear tires of either of them when too long continued ; whereas, by a 
proper mixture of long and short periods, the ear is gratified, and a cer- 
tain sprightliness is joined with majesty in our style. " Non semper," 
says Cicero (describing very expressively, these two different kinds of 
styles, of which I have been speaking) " non semper utendum est per- 
petuitate, et quasi conversion© veiborum ; sed saepe carpenda membris 
minutioribus oratio est' 7 * 

This variety is of so great consequence, that it must be studied, not 
only in the succession of long and short sentences, but in the structure of 
our sentences also. A train of sentences, constructed in the same man- 
ner, and with the same number of members, whether long or short, 
should never be allowed to succeed one another. However musical 
each of them may be, it has a better effect to introduce even a discord, 
than to cloy the ear with the repetition of similar sounds : for, nothing is 
so tiresome as perpetual uniformity. In this article of the construction 
and distribution of his sentences, Lord Shaftesbury has shown great art. 
In the last lecture 1 observed that he is often guilty of sacrificing pre- 
cision of style to pomp of expression ; and that there runs through his 
whole manner a stiffness and affectation, which render him very unfit 
to be considered as a general model. But as his ear was fine, and as he 
was extremely attentive to every thing that is elegant, he has studied the 
proper intermixture of long and short sentences, with variety and har- 
mony in their structure, more than any other English author ; and for 
this part of composition he deserves attention. 

* " It is not proper always to employ a continual train, and a sort of regular com- 
pass of phraises ; but style ought to be often brokeu down into smaller numbers." 



fcECT. XI.j STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. fQg 

Prom these general observations, let us now descend to a more par- 
ticular consideration of the qualities that are required to make a sentence 
perfect. So much depends upon the proper construction of sentences,, 
that, in every sort of composition, we cannot be too strict in our attention 
to it. For, be the subject what it will, if the sentences be constructed in 
a clumsy, perplexed, or feeble manner, it is impossible that a work, com* 
posed of such sentences, can be read with pleasure, or even with profit. 
Whereas, by giving attention to the rules which relate to this part of style* 
we acquire the habit of expressing ourselves with perspicuity and ele- 
gance ; and, if a disorder chance to arise in some of our sentences, we 
immediately see where it lies and are able to rectify it.* 

The properties most essential to a perfect sentence seem to me, the 
four following: 1. Clearness and precision. 2. Unity. 3. Strength. 
4. Harmony. Each of these I shall illustrate separately, and at some 
length. 

The first is, clearness and precision. The least failure here, the least 
degree of ambiguity, which leaves the mind in any sort of suspense as to 
the meaning, ought to be avoided with the greatest care ; nor is it so easy 
a matter to keep always clear of this, as one might, at first, imagine. Am- 
biguity arises from two causes : either from a wrong choice of words, or 
a wrong collocation of them. Of the choice of words, as far as regards 
perspicuity, I treated fully in the last lecture. Of the collocation of them s 
I am now to treat. The first thing to be studied here, is to observe ex- 
actly the rules of grammar, as far as these can guide us. But as the gram- 
mar of our language is not extensive, there may often be an ambiguous 
collocation of words, where there is no transgression of any grammatical 
rule. The relations which the words, or members of a period, bear to 
one another, cannot be pointed out in English, as in the Greek or Latin., 
by means of termination ; it is ascertained only by the position in which 
they stand. Hence a capital rule in the arrangement of sentences is 3 
that the words or members most nearly related, should be placed in the 
sentence, as near to each other as possible ; so as to make their mutual 
relation clearly appear. This is a rule not always observed, even by good 
writers, as strictly as it ought to be. It will be necessary to produce some 
instances, which will both show the importance of this rule, and make 
the application of it to be understood. 

First, in the position of adverbs, which are used to qualify the signi- 
fication of something which either precedes or follows them, there is oftes 
a good deal of nicety. " By greatness," says Mr. Addison, in the Spec- 
tator, No. 412, "I do not only mean the bulk of any single object, but 
the largeness of a whole view." Here the place of the adverb only ren- 
ders it a limitation of the following word mean. " I do not only mean." 
The question may then be put, What does he more than mean ? Had he 
placed it after bulk, still it would have been wrong. " I do not mean the 
bulk only of any single object." For we might then ask, What does he 

* On the structure of sentences, the ancients appear to have bestowed a great deal 
of attention and care. The Treatise of Demetrius Phalereus irigt E^unmns, abounds 
with observations upon the choice and collocation of words, carried to such a degree 
of nicety, as would frequently seem to us minute. The Treatise of Dionysius of 
Halicarnassus, :rsg/ <ruvQt<rviK ovo/unrcev , is more masterly : but it is chiefly confined to 
the musical structure of periods ; a subject for which the Greek language afforded 
much more assistance to their writers than our tongue admits. On the arrange- 
ment of words in English sentences, the xviiith chap, of Lord Kaim's Elements ot 
Criticism ought to be consulted j and also the 2d volume of Dr, Campbell's Philoso- 
phy of Rhetoric, 



104 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES, [LECT. XI. 

mean more than the bulk ? Is it the colour ? Or any other property ? 
Its proper place, undoubtedly, is, after the word object. By greatness, 
I do not mean the bulk of any single object only ;" for then, when we put 
the question, What more does he mean than the bulk of a single object ; 
The answer comes out exactly as the author intends, and gives it ; " The 
largeness of a whole view." " Theism," says Lord Shaftesbury, " can 
only be opposed to polytheism or atheism." Does he mean that theism is 
capable of nothing else, except being opposed to polytheism or atheism ? 
This is what his words literally import, through the wrong collocation of 
only. He should have said, * Theism can be opposed only to polytheism 
or atheism." In like maner, Dean Swift, (Project for the advancement of 
Religion,) " The Romans understood liberty, at least, as well as we." 
These words are capable of two different senses, according as the em- 
phasis, in reading them, is laid upon liberty, or upon at least. In the first 
case, they will signify, that whatever other things we may understand 
better than the Romans, liberty, at least, was one thing, which they un- 
derstood as well as we. In the second case, they will import, that liber- 
ty was understood, at least as well by them as by us ; meaning that by 
them it was better understood. If this last, as I make no doubt, was 
Dean Swift's own meaning, the ambiguity would have been avoided, and 
the sense rendered independent of the manner of pronouncing, by arrang- 
ing the words thus : " The Romans understood liberty as well, at least, 
as we." The fact is, with respect to such adverbs, as only, wholly at 
least, ana* the rest of that tribe, that in common discourse, the tone and 
emphasis we use in pronouncing them, generally serves to show their 
reference, and to make the meaning clear ; and hence we acquire a 
habit of throwing them in loosely in the course of a period. But, in 
writing, where a man speaks to the eye, and not to the ear, he ought to be 
more accurate ; and so to connect those adverbs with the words which 
they qualify, as to put his meaning out of doubt, upon the first inspection. 

Secondly, when a circumstance is interposed in the middle of a sen- 
tence, it sometimes requires attention how to place it, so as to divest it 
of all ambiguity. For instance ; " Are these designs," says Lord Boling- 
broke, Disser. on Parties, Dedicat. " Are these designs, which any man, 
who is born a Briton, in any circumstances, in any situation, ought to be 
ashamed or afraid to avow ?" Here we are left at a loss, whether these 
words, " in any circumstances, in any situation" are connected with, " a 
man born in Britain, in any circumstances, or situation," or with that 
man's " avowing his designs, in any circumstances, or situation into which 
he may be brought !" If the latter, as seems most probable, was intended 
to be the meaning, the arrangement ought to have been conducted thus ; 
u Are these designs which any man who is born a Briton, ought to be 
ashamed or afraid, in any circumstances, in any situation, to avow ?" But, 

Thirdly, still more attention is required to the proper disposition of the 
relative pronouns, who^ which, what, whose, and of all those particles 
which express the connexion of the parts of speech with one another. 
As all reasoning depends upon this connexion, we cannot be too accurate 
and precise here. A small error may overcloud the meaning of the. 
whole sentence 5 and even where the meaning is intelligible, yet, where 
these relative particles are out of their proper place, we always find 
something awkward and disjointed in the structure of the sentence. Thus, 
in the Spectator, (No. 54.) " This kind of wit." says Mr. Addison " was 
very much in vogue among our countrymen, about an age or two ago 



LECT. XL] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. JQ3 

who did not practise it for any oblique reason, but purely for the sake of 
being witty.' We are at no loss about the meaning here ; but the con- 
struction would evidently be mended by disposing of the circumstance^ 
% about an age or two ago,' in such a manner as not to separate the rela- 
tive who, from its antecedent our countrymen ; in this way : * About ari 
age or two ago, this kind of wit was very much in vogue among our coun- 
trymen, who did not practise it for any oblique reason, but purely for the 
sake of being witty.' Spectator, No. 412. * We nowhere meet with a 
more glorious and pleasing show in nature, than what appears in the 
heavens at the rising and setting of the sun* which is wholly made up of 
those different stains of light, that show themselves in clouds of a different 
situation.' Which is here designed to connect with the word show, as its 
antecedent ; but it stands so wide from it, that without a careful attention 
to the sense, we should be naturally led, by the rules of syntax, to refer 
it to the rising and setting of the sun, or to the sun itself; and hence, an 
indistinctness is thrown over the whole sentence. The following passage 
in Bishop Sherlock's sermons, (vol. ii. serm. 15.) is still more censura- 
ble : « It is folly to pretend to arm ourselves against the accidents of life 9 
by heaping up treasures, which nothing can protect us against, but the 
good providence of our heavenly Father,' which, always refers gram- 
matically to the immediately preceding substantive, which here is ' trea- 
sures ;' and this would make nonsense of the whole period. Every one 
feels this impropriety. The sentence ought to have stood thus : \ It is 
folly to pretend * by heaping up treasures, to arm ourselves against the 
accidents of life, which nothing can protect us against, but the good 
providence of our heavenly Father.' 

Of the like nature is the following inaccuracy of Dean Swift's. He is 
recommending to young clergymen, to write their sermons fully and dis- 
tinctly. i Many,' says he, ' act so directly contrary to this method, that, 
from a habit of saving time and paper, which they acquired at the uni- 
versity, they write in so diminutive a manner, that they can hardly read 
what they have written *' He certainly does not mean, that they had ac- 
quired time and paper at the university, but they had acquired this habit 
there ; and therefore his words ought to have run thus , ' From a frabit* 
which they have acquired at the university, of saving time and paper, they 
write in so diminutive a manner. 5 In another passage, the same author 
has left his meaning altogether uncertain, by misplacing a relative. It is 
in the conclusion of his letter to a member of parliament, concerning the 
sacramental test : * Thus I have fairly given you^ Sir, my own opinion^ 
as well as that of a great majority of both houses here, relating to this 
weighty affair ; upon which I am confident you may securely reckon. 9 
Now I ask, what it is he would have his correspondent to reckon upon 
securely ? The natural construction leads to these words, ' this weighty . 
affair.' But, as it would be difficult to make any sense of this, it is more 
probable he meant that the majority of both houses might be securely 
reckoned upon ; though certainly this meaning, as the words are arrang- 
ed, is obscurely expressed. The sentence would be amended by arrang- 
ing it thus : ' Thus, Sir, I have given you my own opinion, relating to 
this weighty affair, as well as that of a great majority of both houses 
here ; upon which I am confident you may securely reckon.' 

Several other instances might be given ; but I reckon those which I 
have produced sufficient to make the rule understood ; that in the con* 
struction of sentences, one of the first things to be attended to* is thg 

O 



]0£ STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [LECT. Xf.- 

marshalling of the words in such order as shall most clearly mark the 
relation of the several parts of the sentence to one another ; particularly,, 
that adverbs shall always be made to adhere closely to the words which 
they are intended to qualify ; that, where a circumstance is thrown in, it 
shall never hang loose in the midst of a period, but be determined by its 
place to one or other member of it ; and that every relative word which 
is used, shall instantly present its antecedent to the mind of the reader, 
without the least obscurity. I have mentioned these three cases, because 
I think they are the most frequent occasions of ambiguity creeping into 
sentences. 

With regard to relatives, I must farther observe, that obscurity often 
arises from the too frequent repetition of them, particularly of the 
pronouns ze?/io, and they, and them, and theirs, when we have occasion to 
refer to different persons ; as, in the following sentence of Archbishop 
Tillotson ; (vol. i. serm. 42.) * Men look with an evil eye upon the 
good that is in others ; and think that their reputation obscures them, and 
their commendable qualities stand in their light ; and therefore they do 
what they can to cast a cloud over them, that the bright shining of their 
virtues may not obscure them.' This is altogether careless writing. It 
renders style often obscure, always embarrassed and inelegant. When 
we find these personal pronouns crowding too fast upon us, we have 
often no method left, but to throw the whole sentence into some other 
form, wliich may avoid those frequent references to persons who have 
before been mentioned. 

All languages are liable to ambiguities. Quintilian gives us some in- 
stances in the Latin, arising from faulty arrangements. A man, he tells use, 
ordered by his will, to have erected for him, after his death, ' Statuam 
auream hastam tenentem ;' upon which arose a dispute at law, whether 
the whole statue, or the spear only, was to be of gold ? The same au- 
thor observes, very properly, that a sentence is always faulty, when the 
collocation of the words is ambiguous, though the sense can be gathered. 
If any one should say, " Chremetem audivi percussisse Demeam,' this i§ 
ambiguous, both in sense and structure, whether Chremes or Demea gave 
the blow. But if this expression were used, ' Se vidisse hominem li- 
brum scribentem,' although the meaning be clear, yet Quintilian insists 
that the arrangement is wrong. * Nam,' says he, ' etiamsi librum ab 
homine scribi pateat, non certe hominem a libro, male tamen composuerat, 
feceratque ambiguum quantum in ipso fuit.' Indeed, to have the relation 
of every word and member of a sentence marked in the most proper and 
distinct manner, gives not clearness only, but grace and beauty to a sen- 
tence, making the mind pass smoothly and agreeably along all the parts 
of it. 

I proceed now to the second quality of a well-arranged sentence, which 
I termed its unity. This is a capital property. In every composition , 
of whatever kind, some degree of unity is required, in order to render 
it beautiful. There must be always some connecting principle among 
the parts. Some one subject must reign and be predominant. This, as I 
shall hereafter show, holds in history, in epic and dramatic poetry, and in 
all orations. But most of all, in a single sentence, is required the strict- 
est unity. For the. very nature of a sentence implies one proposition to 
be expressed. It may consist of -parts, indeed ; but these parts must be 
so closely bound together, as to make the impression upon the mind, of 
one object, not of many. Now, in order to preserve this unity of a sen- 
fence, the following rules must he observed-: 



L£€T. XL] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 107 

In the first place, during the course of the sentence, the scene should 
he changed as little as possible. We should not be hurried by sudden 
transitions from person to person, nor from subject to subject. There is 
commonly, in every sentence, some person or thing, which is the govern- 
ing word. This should be continued so, if possible, from the beginning 
to the end of it. Should I express myself thus : * After we came to an- 
chor, they put me on shore, where 1 was welcomed by all my friends, 
who receive me with the greatest kindness.' In this sentence, though 
the objects contained in it have a sufficient connexion with each other, 
yet, by this manner of representing them, by shifting so often both the 
place and the person, we, and they, and /, and who, they appear in such 
a disunited view, that the sense of connexion is almost lost. The sen- 
tence is restored to its proper unity, by turning it after the following 
manner : ' Having come to au anchor, I was put on shore, where I was 
welcomed by all my friends, and received with the greatest kindness.' 
Writers, who transgress this rule, for the most part transgress, at the 
same time, 

A second rule ; never to crowd into one sentence things which have so 
little connexion, that the}' could bear to be divided into two or three sen- 
tences. The violation of this rule never fails to hurt Und displease a 
reader. Its effect, indeed,issobad,that ofthetwo,itis the safer extreme, 
to err rather by two many short sentences, than by one that is overloaded 
and embarrassed. Examples abound in authors. I shall produce some 
to justify what I now say. ' Archbishop Tillotson,' says an author of the 
History of England, ' died in this year. He was exceedingly beloved both 
by king William and queen Mary, who nominated Dr. Tennison, Bi- 
shop of Lincoln, to succeed him.' Who would expect the latter part of 
this sentence to follow, in consequence of the former ? ' He was exceed- 
ingly beloved by both king and queen,' is the proposition of the sentence, 
we look for some proof of this, or at least something related to it to follow; 
when we are on a sudden carried off to a new proposition, ' who nomina- 
ted Dr. Tennison to succeed him.' The following is from Middieton's 
Life of Cicero : ' In this uneasy state, both of his public and private life, 
Cicero was oppressed by a new and cruel affliction, the death of his be- 
loved daughter Tullia ; which happened soon after her divorce from Dola- 
bella ; whose manners and humours were entirely disagreeable to her.' 
The principal object in this sentence is, the death of Tullia, which was 
the cause of her father's affliction ; the date of it, as happening soon after 
her divorce from Dolabella, may enter into the sentence with propriety : 
but the subjunction of Dolabella's character is foreign to the main object ; 
and breaks the unity and compactness of the sentence totally, by setting 
a new picture before the reader. The following sentence, from a 
translation of Plutarch, is still worse : ' Their march,' says the author, 
speaking of the Greeks under Alexander, ' their inarch, was through an 
uncultivated country, whose savage inhabitants fared hardly, having no 
other riches than a breed of lean sheep, whose flesh was rank and un- 
savoury, by reason of their continually feeding upon sea-fish.' Here the 
scene is changed upon us again and again. The march of the Greeks, 
the description of the inhabitants through whose country they travelled, 
the account of their sheep, and the cause of their sheep being ill-tasted 
food, form a jumble of objects, slightly related to each other, which the 
reader cannot, without much difficulty, comprehend under one view. 



I OS STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [LECT. Xh 

These examples have been taken from sentences of no great length, 
yet over-crowded. Authors who deal in long sentences, are very apt 
to be faulty in this article. One need only open Lord Clarendon's his- 
tory, to find examples everywhere. The long, involved, and intricate 
sentences of that author, are the greatest blemish of his composition ; 
though, in other respects, as a historian, he has considerable merit. In 
later, and more correct writers than Lord Clarendon, we find a period 
sometimes running out so far, and comprehending so many particulars, 
as to be more properly a discourse than a sentence. Take, for an in- 
stance, the following, from Sir William Temple, in his Essay upon Po~ 
etry. ' The usual acceptation takes profit and pleasure for two different 
things ; and not only calls the followers or votaries of them by the se- 
veral names of busy and idle men ; but distinguishes the faculties of the 
mind, that are conversant about them, calling the operations of the first, 
wisdom ; and of the other, wit ; which is a Saxon word, used to express 
what the Spaniards and Italians call ingenio, and the French, esprit, both 
from the Latin ; though I think wit more particularly signifies that of 
poetry, as may occur in remarks on the Runic language.' When one 
arrives at the end of such a puzzled sentence, he is surprised to find 
himself got to so great a distance from the object with wh, h he at first 
set out. 

Lord Shaftesbury, often betrayed into faults by his love of magnifi- 
cence, shall afford us the next example. ■ It is in his rhapsody, where he 
is describing the cold regions : ' At length,' says he, ' the sun approach- 
ing, melts the snow, sets longing men at liberty, and affords them means 
and time to make provision against the next return of cold ;' The first 
sentence is correct enough ; but he. goes on : 'It breaks the icy fetters 
of the main, where vast sea-monsters pierce through floating islands, with 
arms which can withstand the crystal rock ; whilst others, who of them- 
selves seem great as islands, are by their bulk alone armed against all 
but man, whose superiority over creatures of such stupendous size and 
force, should make him mindful of his privilege of reason, and force him 
humbly to adore the great composer of these wondrous frames, and the 
author of his own superior wisdom.' Nothing can be more unhappy or 
embarrassed than this sentence ; the worse, too, as it is intended to be 
descriptive, where every thing should be clear. It forms no distinct 
image whatever. The it, at the beginning, is ambiguous, whether itmean 
the sun or the cold, The object is changed three times in the sentence ; 
beginning with the sun, which breaks the icy fetters of the main ; then 
the sea-monsters become the principal personages ; and lastly, by a 
very unexpected transition, man is brought into view, and receives a long 
and serious admonition, before the sentence closes. I do not at present 
insist on the impropriety of such expressions as, God*s being the compo- 
ser of frames ; and the sea-monsters having arms that withstand rocks. 
Shaftesbury's strength lay in reasoning and sentiment, more than in de- 
scription ; however much his descriptions have been sometimes admired. 

I shall only give one instance more on this head, from Dean Swift ; 
in his proposal, too, for correcting the English language : where, in 
place of a sentence, he has given a loose dissertation upon several sub- 
jects. Speaking of the progress of our language, after the time of 
Cromwell : ' To this succeeded,' says he, ' that licentiousness which 
entered with the restoration, and from infecting our religion, and morals, 
fell to corrupt our language ; which last was not likely to be much im- 



LECT.XI.J STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 109 

proved by those, who at that time made up the court of king Charles the 
Second ; either such as had followed him in his banishment, or who had 
been altogether conversant in the dialect of these fanatic times ; or 
young men, who had been educated in the same country : so that the 
court, which used to be the standard of correctness and propriety of 
speech, was then, and I think has ever since continued, the worst school 
in England for that accomplishment ; and so will remain, till better care 
be taken in the education of our nobility, that they may set out into the 
world with some foundation of literature, in order to qualify them for 
patterns of politeness.' — How many different facts, reasonings, and ob- 
servations, are here presented to the mind at once ! and yet so linked 
together by the author, that they all make parts of a sentence, which 
admits of no greater division in pointing, than a semicolon between any 
of its members ? Having mentioned pointing, I shall here take notice, 
that it is in vain to propose, by arbitrary punctuation, to amend the de- 
fects of a sentence, to correct its ambiguity, or to prevent its confusion. 
For, commas, colons, and points, do not make the proper divisions of 
thought ; but only serve to mark those which arise from the tenour of the 
author's expression ; and, therefore, they are proper or not, just ac^ 
cording as they correspond to the natural division of the sense. When 
they are inserted in wrong places, they deserve, and will meet with, no 
regard. 

I proceed to a third rule, for preserving the unity of sentences ; which 
is, to keep clear of all parenthesis in the middle of them. On some oc- 
casions, these may have a spirited appearance ; as prompted by a cer- 
tain vivacity of thought, which can glance happily aside, as it is going 
along. But, for the most part, their effect is extremely bad ; being a 
sort of wheels within wheels ; sentences in the midst of sentences ; the 
perplexed method of disposing of some thought, which a writer wants 
art to introduce in its proper place. It were needless to give many in- 
stances, as they occur so often among incorrect writers. I shall pro-> 
duce one from Lord Bolingbroke ; the rapidity of whose genius, and 
manner of writing, betrays him frequently into inaccuracies of this sort. 
It is in the introduction to his idea of a patriot king, where he writes 
thus : ' It seems to me, that in order to maintain the system of the world, 
at a certain point, far below that of ideal perfection, (for we are made 
capable of conceiving what we are incapable of attaining) but, how- 
ever, sufficient, upon the whole, to constitute a state easy and happy, or, 
at the worst, tolerable ; I say, it seems to me, that the Author of Nature 
has thought fit to mingle, from time to time, among the societies of men, 
a few and but a few, of those on whom he is graciously pleased to 
bestow a larger portion of the etherial spirit, than is given, in the or- 
dinary course of his government, to the sons of men.' A very bad 
sentence this ; into which, by the help of a parenthesis, and other 
interjected circumstances, his lordship had contrived to thrust so many 
things, that he is forced to begin the construction again with the phrase., 
J say : which, whenever it occurs, may always be assumed as a sure 
mark of a clumsy, ill-constructed sentence; excusable in speaking, 
where the greatest accuracy is not expected, but in polished writing, 
unpardonable. 

I shall add only one rule more for the unity of a sentence, which is, 
to bring it always to a full and perfect close. Every thing that is one, 
should have a beginning, a middle, and an end, I need not take notice, 



HO STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [LECT. XXL 

that an unfinished sentence is no sentence at all,, according to any gram- 
matical rule. But very often we meet with sentences that are, so to 
speak, more than finished. When we have arrived at what we expect- 
ed was to be the conclusion, when we have come to the word on which 
the mind is naturally led, by what went before, to rest ; unexpectedly, 
some circumstance pops out, which ought to have been omitted, or to have 
been disposed of elsewhere ; but which is left lagging behind, -like a 
tail adjected to the sentence ; somewhat that, as Mr. Pope describes the 
Alexandrian line, 

" Like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along." 
All these adjections to the proper close, disfigure a sentence extreme- 
ly. They give it a lame, ungraceful air, and, in particular, they break 
its unity. Dean Swift, for instance, in his Letter to a Young Clergyman, 
speaking of Cicero's writings, expresses himself thus : ' With these 
writings, young divines are more conversant, than with those of De- 
mosthenes., who, by many degrees, excelled the other ; at least as an 
orator.* Here the natural close of the sentence is at these words, 
* excelled the other.' These words conclude the propositions ; we 
look for no more ; and the circumstance added, ' at least as an orator," 
comes in with a very halting pace. How much more compact would the 
sentence have been, if turned thus : c With these writings, young divines 
are more conversant, than with those of Demosthenes, who, by many 
degrees, as an orator at least, excelled the other.' In the following 
sentence, from Sir William Temple, the adjection to the sentence is 
altogether foreign to it. Speaking of Burnet's Theory of the Earth, and 
Fontenelle's Plurality of Worlds, ' The first,' says he, ' could not end 
bis learned treatise without a panegyric of modern learning, in compari- 
son of the ancient ; and the other, falls so grossly into the censure of the 
old poetry, and preference of the new, that I could not read either of 
these strains without some indignation ; which no quality among men is 
so apt to raise in me as self-sufficiency.' The word ' indignation,' con- 
cluded the sentence ; the last member, i which no quality among men 
is so apt to raise in me as self-sufficiency,' is a proposition altogether 
new. added after the proper close. 



LECTURE XII. 



STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 

Having treated of perspicuity and unity, as necessary to be studied 
in the structure of sentences, I proceed to the third quality of a correct 
sentence, which I termed strength. By this, I mean such a disposition of 
the several words and members, as shall bring out the sense to the best 
advantage ; as shall render the impression, which the period is designed to 
make, most full and complete ; and give every word, and every member, 
their due weight and force. The two former qualities of perspicuity and 
unity are, no doubt, absolutely necessary to the production of this effect ; 
but more is still requisite. For a sentence may be clear enough ; it may 



JLECT. XII ,] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. \-ft 

also be compact enough, in all its parts, or have the requisite unity ; and 
yet, by some unfavourable circumstance in the structure, it may fail in that 
strength or liveliness of impression, which a more happy arrangement 
would have produced. 

The first rule which I shall give, for promoting the strength of a sen- 
tence is, to divest it of all redundant words. These may, sometimes, 
be consistent with a considerable degree both of clearness and unity ; but 
they are always enfeebling. They make the sentence move along tardy 
and encumbered : 

Est brevitate opus, ut currat sententia, neu se 
Impediat verbis, lassas onerantibus aures.* 

It is a general maxim, that any words which do not add some importance to 
the meaning of a sentence, always spoil it. They cannotbe superfluous, 
without being hurtful. ' Obstat,' says Quintilian, ' quicquid non adjuvat.' 
All that can be easily supplied in the mind, is better left out in the expres- 
sion. Thus : ' Content with deserving a triumph, he refused the hon- 
our of it,' is better language than to say, \ Being content with deserving 
a triumph, he refused the honour of it.' I consider it, therefore, as one 
of the most useful exercises of correction, upon reviewing what we have 
written or composed, to contract that round-about method of expression,, 
and to lop off those useless excrescences which are commonly found in a 
first draught. Here a severe eye should be employed ; and we shall 
always find our sentences acquire more vigour and energy when thus re- 
trenched : provided always that we run not into the extreme of pruning 
so very close, as to give a hardness and dryness to style. For here, as 
in all other things, there is a due medium. Some regard, though not the 
principal, must be had to fulness and swelling of sound. Some leaves 
must be left to surround and shelter the fruit. 

As sentences should be cleared of redundant words, so also of redundant 
members. As every word ought to present a new idea, so every member 
ought to contain a new thought. Opposed to this, stands the fault we 
sometimes meet with, of the last member of a period being no other than 
the echo of the former, or the repetition of it in somewhat a different 
form. For example ; speaking of beauty, * The very first discovery of 
it,' says Mr. Addison, ' strikes the mind with inward joy, and spreads de- 
light through all its faculties.' (No. 412 ) And elsewhere, " It is impossi- 
ble for us to behold the divine works with coldness or indifference, or to 
survey so many beauties, without a secret satisfaction and complacency.' 
(No 413.) In both these instances, little or nothing is added by the se- 
cond member of the sentence to what was already expressed in the first j 
and though the free and flowing manner of such an author as Mr. Addi- 
son, and the graceful harmony of his periods, may paliate such negli- 
gences ; yet, in general, it holds that style, freed from this prolixity., 
appears both more strong and more beautiful. The attention becomes 
remiss, the mind falls into inaction, when words are multiplied without a 
corresponding multiplication of ideas. 

After removing superfluities, the second direction I give, for promoting 
the strength of a sentence, is to attend particularly to the use of copula- 
tives, relatives, and all the particles employed for transition and 'connex- 

*■'■ Concise your diction, let your sense be clear, 
Nor with a weight of words fatigue the ear," erastc i - 



\VZ STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [LECT. XIl 

ion. These little words, but, and, which, whose, where, kc. are frequent- 
ly the most important words of any ; they are the joints or hinges upon 
which all sentences turn, and of course, much, both of their gracefulness 
and strength must depend upon such particles. The varieties in using 
them are, indeed, so infinite, that no particular system of rules, respect- 
ing them, can be given. Attention to the practice of the most accurate 
writers, joined with frequent trials of the different effects produced by a 
different usage of those particles, must here direct us.* Some obser- 
vations, I shall mention, which have occurred to me as useful, without 
pretending to exhaust the subject* 

What is called splitting of particles, or separating a preposition from 
the noun which it governs, is always to be avoided. As if I should saj r , 
' Though virtue borrows no assistance from, yet it may often be accom- 
panied by, the advantages of fortune.' In such instances, we feel a sort 
of pain, from the revulsion, or violent separation of two things, which, 
by their nature, should be closely united. We are put to a stand in 
thought ; being obliged to rest for a little on the preposition by itself, 
which at the same time, carries no significancy, till it is joined to its 
proper substantive noun. 

Some writers needlessly multiply demonstrative and relative particles, 
by the frequent use of such phraseology as this : ' There is nothing which 
disgusts us sooner than the empty pomp of language.' In introducing a 
subject, or laying down a proposition, to which we demand particular at- 
tention, this sort of style is very proper ; but, in the ordinary current of 
discourse, it is better to express ourselves more simply and shortly ; 
'Nothing disgusts us sooner than the empty pomp of language.' 

Other writers make a practice of omitting the relative, in a phrase of a 
different kind from the former, where they think the meaning can be un- 
derstood without it. As, ' The man I love.' ' The dominions we pos- 
sessed, and the conquests we made.' But though this eliptical style be 
intelligible, and is allowable in conversation and epistolary writing, yet in 
all writings of a serious or dignified kind, it is ungraceful. There, the rela- 
tive should always be inserted in its proper place, and the construction 
filled up : * The man whom I love.' ' The dominions which we possess- 
ed,, and the conquests which we made.' 

With regard to the copulative particle, and, which occurs so frequently 
in all kinds of composition, several observations are to be made. First, 
it is evident, that the unnecessary repetition of it enfeebles style. It 
has the same sort of effect, as the frequent use of the vulgar phrase, 
and sot when one is telling a story in common conversation. We shall 
take a sentence from Sir William Temple, for an instance. He is speak- 
in 0, of the refinement of the French language : ' The academy set up 
by Cardinal Richelieu, to amuse the wits of that age and country, and 
divert them from raking into his politics and ministry, brought this into 
vogue ; and the French wits have, for this last age, been wholly turned 
to the refinement of their style and language ; and, indeed, with such 
success, that it can hardly be equalled, and runs equally through their 
verse and their prose.' Here are no fewer than eight ands in one sen- 
tence. This agreeable writer too often makes his sentences drag in this 
manner, by a careless multiplication of copulatives. It is strange how a 

*On this head, Dr. Lowth's Short Introduction to English Grammar tfe's&ves to 
be constated j where several niceties of the language are well pointed out. j 



LECT. XlL] sTKUCT URE OF SENTENCES, f.f| 

writer, so accurate as Dean Swift, should have stumbled on so improper 
an application of this particle, as he has made in the following sentence j 
Essay on the Fates of Clergymen. *' There is no talent so useful towards 
rising in the world, or which puts men more out of the reach of fortune, 
than that quality generally possessed by the dullest sort of people, andis^; 
in common language, called discretion ; a species of lower prudence, by 
the assistance of which, &c." By the insertion of, and is, in place of, 
-which is, he has not only clogged the sentence, but even made it ungram- 
matical. 

But, in the next place, St is worthy of observation, that though the 
natural use of the conjunction and, be to join objects together, and thereby, 
as one would think, to make their connexion more close ; yet, in fact, by 
dropping the conjunction, we often mark a closer connexion, a quicker 
succession of objects, than when it is inserted between them. Longinus 
makes this remark ; which; from many instances, appears to be just : 
" Veni, vidi, vici,"* expresses, with more spirit, the rapidity and quick 
succession of conquest, than if connecting particles had been used. So, in 
the following description of a route, in Caesar's Commentaries: u Nostri, 
emissis pilis, gladiis rem gerunt; repente post tergum equitatus cernitur ; 
cohortes alias appropinquant. Kostes terga vertunt ; fugientibus equiteS 
occurrunt ; fit magna casdes.' 5 ! Bell. Gail. lib. 7. 

Hence it follows, that when, 6n the other hand, we seek to prevent & 
cjuick transition from one object to another, when we are making some 
enumeration, in which we wish that the objects should appearas distinct 
from each other as possible, and that the mind should rest for a moment 
on each object by itself; in this case, Copulatives may be multiplied with 
peculiar advantage and grace. As when Lord Bolingbroke says, * s Such a 
man might fall a victim to power; but truth, and reason, and liberty, would 
fall with him." In the same manner, Caesar describes an engagement with 
the Nervii ; " His equitibus facile pulsis ac proturbatis, incredibili celeri- 
tate ad flumen decurrerunt ; ut pene uno tempore, et ad silvas, etin flu- 
mine, et jam in manibus nostris, hostes viderentur."| Bell. GalL lib. 2„- 
Here, although he is describing a quick succession of events, yet as it 
is his intention to show in how many places the enemy seemed to be at 
one time, the copulative is very happily redoubled, in order to pain£ 
more strongly the distinction of these several places. 

This attention to the several cases, when it is proper to omit and wheri 
to redouble the copulative, is of considerable importance to all who study 
eloquence. For it is a remarkable particularity in language, that the 
omission of a connecting particle should sometimes serve to make objects 
appear more closely connected; and that the repetition of it should distin- 
guish and separate them, in some measure, from each Other. Hence, the 
omission of it is used to denote rapidity ; and the repetition of it is designed 
to retard and to aggravate. The reason seems to be, that, in the former 
case, the mind is supposed to be hurried so fast through a quick sue 
cession of objects, that it has not leisure to point out their connexion, 

* " I came, I saw, I conquered." 

t " Our men, after having discharged their javelins, attack with sword in hand : 
of a sudden, the cavalry make their appearance behind ; other bodies of men aref 
seen drawing near; the enemies turn their backs ; the horse meet them in their 
flight ; a great slaughter ensues." 

\ " The enemy, having easily beat off, and scattered this body of horse, fan down 
with incredible celerity to the river ; so that, almost at one moment of time,, they 
appeared to be in the woods, and in the river, and in the midst of our troops " 



114 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCE* ['LECT.XIU 

it drops the copulatives in its hurry ; and crowds the whole series to- 
gether, as if it were but one object. Whereas, when we enumerate, 
with a view to aggravate, the mind is supposed to proceed with a more 
slow and solemn pace ; it marks fully the relation of each object to that 
which succeeds it; and, by joining them together with several copulatives, 
makes you perceive, that the objects, though connected, are yet, in them- 
selves, distinct ; that they are many, not one. Observe, for instance 
in the following enumeration, made by the apostle Paul, what additional 
weight and distinctness is given to each particular, by the repetition of 
a conjunction, ** I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, 
nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, 
nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate 
us from the love of God." Rom. viii. 38, 39. So much with regard to 
the use of copulatives. 

I proceed to a third rule for promoting the strength of a sentence, 
which is, to dispose of the capital word or words, in that place of the 
sentence, where they will make the fullest impression. That such 
capital words there are in every sentence, on which the meaning prin- 
cipally rests, every one must see ; and that these words should possess 
a conspicuous and distinguished place, is equally plain. Indeed, that 
place of the sentence where they will make the best figure, whether the 
beginning, or the end, or sometimes, even in the middle, cannot, as far 
as I know, be ascertained by any precise rule. This must vary with 
the nature of tbe sentence. Perspicuity must ever be studied in- the 
first place ; and the nature of our language allows no great liberty in the 
choice of collocation. For the most part, with us, the important words 
are placed in the beginning of the sentence. So Mr. Addison : " The 
pleasures of the imagination, taken in their full extent, are not so gross 
as those of sense, nor so refined as those of the understanding." And 
this, indeed, seems the most plain and natural order, to place that in the 
front which is the chief object of the proposition we are laying down. 
Sometimes, however, when we intend to give weight to a sentence, 
it is of advantage to suspend the meaning for a little, and then bring it 
out full at the close : "Thus," says Mr. Pope, " on whatever side we 
contemplate Homer, what principally strikes us. is, his wonderful inven- 
tion." (Pref. to Homer.) 

The Greek and Latin writers had a considerable advantage above us, 
in [this part of style. By the great liberty of inversion, which their 
languages permitted, they could choose the most advantageous situation 
for every word ; and had it thereby in their power to give their sen- 
tences more force. Milton, in his prose works, and some other of our 
old English writers, endeavoured to imitate them in this. But the 
forced constructions which they employer', produced obscurity ; and the 
genius of our language, as it is now written and spoken, will not admit 
such liberties. Mr. Gordon, who followed this inverted style, in his 
translation of Tacitus, has sometimes done such violence to the language, 
as even to appear ridiculous ; as in this expression: "Into this hole 
thrust themselves, three Roman senators." He has translated so simple 
a phrase as, " Nullum ea tempestate bellum," by, " War at that time 
there was none." However, within certain bounds, and to a limited de- 
gree, our language does admit of inversions ; and they are practised 
with success by the best writers. So Mr. Pope, speaking of Homer, 
- : The praise of judgment Virgil has justly contested with him, but his- 



LECT.XU-1 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES; J 15 

invention remains yet unrivalled." It is evident, that in order Jo give 
the sentence its due force, by contrasting properly the two capital words, 
"judgment and invention," this is a happier arrangement than if he had 
followed the natural order, which was, " Virgil has justly contested with 
him the praise of judgment, but his invention remains yet unrivalled." 

Some writers practise this degree of inversion, which our language 
bears, much more than others; Lord Shatfesbury, for instance, much more 
than Mr. Addison ; and to this sort of arrangement, is owing, in a great 
measure, that appearance of strength, dignity, and varied harmony, which 
Lord Shaftesbury's style possesses. This will appear from the following 
sentences of his Inquiry into Virtue; where all the words are placed, 
not strictly in the natural order, but with that artificial construction, 
which may give theperiod most emphasis and grace. He is speaking 
of the misery of vice. "This, as to the complete immoral state, is, 
what of their own accord, men readily remark. Where there is this 
absolute degeneracy, this ttKal apostacy from all candour, trust, or equi- 
ty, there are few who do not see and acknowledge the misery which is 
consequent. Seldom is the case misconstrued, When at worst. The 
misfortune is, that we look not on this depravity, nor consider how it 
stands, in less degrees. As if, to be absolutely immoral, were, indeed, 
the greatest miserv; but, to be so in a little degree, should be no misery 
or harm at all. Which to allow, is just as reasonable as to own, that 
'tis the greatest ill of a body to be in the utmost manner maimed or dis- 
torted ; but that to lose the use only of one limb, or to be impaired in 
some single organ or member, is no ill worthy the least notice." (Vol. ii. 
p. 82.) Here is no violence done to the language, though there are 
many inversions. All is stately, and arranged with art ; which is the 
great characteristic of this author's style. 

We need only open any page of Mr. Addison, to see quite a different 
order in the construction of sentences. " Our sight is the most perfect, 
and most delightful of all our senses. It fills the mind with the largest 
variety of ideas, converses with its objects at the greatest distance, 
and continues the longest in action, without being tired, or satiated with 
its proper enjoyments. The sense of feeling can, indeed, give us a no- 
tion of extension, shape, and all other ideas that enter at the eye, ex- 
cept colours ; but at the same time, it is very much straitened and con- 
fined in its operations, &c." (Spectator No. 411.) In this strain, he 
always proceeds, following the most natural and obvious order of the 
language : and if, by this means, he has less pomp and majesty than 
Shaftesbury, he has, in return, more nature, more ease and simplicity ; 
which are beauties of a higher order. 

But whether we practise inversion or not, and in whatever part of 
the sentence we dispose of the capital words, it is always a point of 
great moment, that these capital words shall stand clear and disentan- 
gled from any other words that would clog them. Thus, when there 
are any circumstances of time, place, or other limitations, which the 
principal object of our sentence requires to have connected with it, we 
must take especial care to dispose of them, so as no.t to cloud that prin- 
cipal object, nor to bury it under a load of circumstances. This will 
be made clearer by an example. Observe the arrangement of the 
following sentence in Lord Shaftesbury's Advice to an Author. He is 
speaking of modern poets, as compared with the ancient: "If, whilst 
they profess only to please, they secretly advise, and give instruction, 



{}$ STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES [LECT. All. 

they may now, perhaps, as well as formerly, be esteemed, with justice^ 
the best and most honourable among authors." This is a well-construct-? 
ed sentence. It contains a great many circumstances and adverbs, ne- 
cessary to gualify the meaning: only, secretly, as well, perhaps, now, with 
justice, formerly : yet these are placed with so much art, as neither to 
embarrass, nor weaken the sentence ; while that which is the capital 
object in it, fv#. " Poets being justly esteemed the best and most honour- 
able among authors," comes out in the conclusion clear and detached, and 
possesses its proper place. See, now, what would have been the effect 
of a different arrangement. Suppose him to have placed the members 
of the sentence f,hus : " If, whilst they profess to please only, they adr 
vise and give instruction secretly, they may be esteemed the best and 
most honourable among authors, with justice, perhaps, now, as well as 
formerly." Here we have precisely the same words and the same sense: 
but, by means of the circumstances being so intermingled as to clog the 
capital wQrdSjthe jf^oje becomes perplexed* without grace, and without 
strength. 

A fourth rule, for constructing sentences with proper strength, is, to 
make the members of them goon rising and growing in their importance 
above one another. This sort of arrangement is called a climax, and is al- 
ways coasidered as a beauty in composition. From what cause it pleases, 
is abundantly evident In all things, we naturally love to ascend to what 
is more and more beautiful, rather than to follow the retrograde order. 
Having had once some considerable object set before us, it is with pain ? 
we are pulled back tQ attend to an inferior circumstance. *' Cavendum 
est," says Quintilian, whose authority I always willingly quote, " ne de- 
crescat oratio, et fortiori subjungatur aliquid infirmius ; sicut, sacrilegio, 
fur ; aut latroni petulans. Augeri enim debent sententiae et insurgere."* 
Of this beauty, in the construction of sentences, the orations of Cicero 
furnish many examples. His pompous manner naturally led him to 
study it ; and, generally, in order to render the climax perfect, he makes 
both the sense and the sound rise together, with a very magnificent 
swell. So, in his oration for Milo, speaking of a design of Clodius's for 
assassinating Pompey : " Atque si res, si vir, si tempus ullum dignum 
fait, certe haec ilia causa summa omnia fuerunt. Insidiator erat in Foro 
collocatus, atque in yestibulo ipso Senatus ei viro autem mors paraba- 
tur cujus in vita nitebatur salus civitatis ; eo porro reipublicae tempore, 
quo si unus ille occidisset, non haec solum civitas, sed gentes omnes con- 
cidissent." The following instance, from Lord Bolingbroke, is also 
beautiful : " This decency, this grace, this propriety of manners to 
character, is so essential to princes in particular, that, whenever it is 
peglected, their virtues lose a great degree of lustre, and their defects 
acquire much aggravation. Nay, more ; by neglecting this decency and 
this grace, and for want of a sufficient regard to appearances, even their 
virtues may betray them into failings, their failings into vices, and their 
^ices into habits unworthy of princes, and unworthy of men." (Idea of 
a Patriot King.) 

I must observe, however, that this sort of full ana* oratorial climax s 
pan neither , be always obtained, nor ought to be always sought after. 

* " Care must be taken, that our composition shall not fall off, and that a weaker 
exjpassion shall pot follow one of more strength : as if, after sacrilege we should 
brifjg In theft ; or, having mentioned a robbery, we should subjoin petulance, 
fyf.nfmces ought always to rise and grow.'- 



&ECT. XII.] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. H7 

£>nly some kinds of writing admit such sentences ; and to study them 
too frequently, especially if the subject require not so much pomp, is 
affected and disagreeable. But there is something approaching to a cli- 
max, which it is a general rule to study, ' ne decrescat oratjo,' as Quinti- 
lian speaks, ' et ne fortiori subjungatar aliquid infirmius.' A weaker 
assertion or proposition should never come after a stronger one : and 
when our sentence consists ef two members, the longest should, gene- 
rally, be the concluding one. There is a twofold reason for this last 
direction. Periods, thus divided, are pronounced more easily ; and the 
shortest member being placed first, we carry it more readily in our me- 
mory as we proceed to the second, and see the connexion of the two 
more clearly. Thus, to say, ' when our passions have forsaken us, we 
Hatter ourselves with the belief that we have forsaken them,' is both 
more graceful and more clear, than to begin with the longest part of the 
proposition ; ' we flatter ourselves with the belief that we have forsaken 
our passions, when they have forsaken us.' In general, it is always 
agreeable to find a sentence rising upon us, and growing in its impor- 
tance to the very last word, when this construction can be managed with- 
out affectation or unseasonable pomp. * If we rise yet higher,' says 
Mr. Addison, very beautifully, 4 and consider the fixed stars as so manv 
oceans of flame, that are each of them attended with a different 
set of planets ; and still discover new firmaments and new lights, that 
are sunk farther in those unfathomable depths of aether : we are lost in 
such a labyrinth of suns and worlds, and confounded with the magnify 
cence and immensity of Nature.' (Spect. No. 420.) Hence follows 
clearly, 

A fifth rule for the strength of sentences, which is, to avoid conclu- 
ding them with an adverb, a preposition, or any inconsiderable word. 
Such conclusions are always enfeebling and degrading. There are sen- 
tences indeed, where the stress and significancy rests chiefly upon some 
words of this kind. In this case, they are not to be considered as cir- 
cumstances, but as the capital figures ; and ought, in propriety, to have 
4he principal place allotted them. No fault, for instance, can be found 
with this sentence of Bolingbroke's : * in their prosperity, my friends 
shall never hear of me ; in their adversity, always.' Where never and 
always, being emphatical words, were to be so placed, as to make a 
strong impression. But I speak now of those inferior parts of speech, 
when introduced as circumstances, or as qualifications of more important 
words. In such case they should always be disposed of in the least 
conspicuous parts of the period ; and so classed with other words of 
greater dignity, as to be kept in their proper secondary station. 

Agreeably to this rule, we should always avoid concluding with any 
of those particles, which mark the cases of nouns, of, to, from, witk^, 
by. For instance, it is a great deal better to say, 'Avarice is a crime 
of which wise men are often guilty,' than to say, ' Avarice is a crime 
which wise men are often guilty of.' This is a Phraseology which all 
correct writers shun, and with reason. For besides the want of dignity 
which arises from those monosyllables at the end, the imagination can- 
not avoid resting, for a little, on the import of the word which closes the 
sentence : and as those prepositions have no import of their own, but 
only serve to point out the relations of other words, it is disagreeable 
for the mind to be left pausing on a word, which does not, by itself, pro- 
duce any idea, nor form any picture in the fancy. 



*J 1$ STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [LECT. XII 

For the same reason, verbs which are used in a compound sense, with 
some of these prepositions, are, though not so bad, yet still not so beau- 
tiful conclusions of a period ; such as, bring about, lay hold of, come over 
to, char up, and many other of this kind ; instead of which, if we can 
employ a simple verb, it always terminates the sentence with more 
strength. Even the pronoun it, though it has the import of a substantive 
noun, and indeed often forces itself upon us unavoidably, j^et, when we 
want to give dignity to a sentence, should, if possible, be avoided in the 
conclusion ; more especially, when it is joined with some of the prepo- 
sitions, as, with it, in it, to it. In the following sentence of the Spectator, 
which otherwise is abundantly noble, the bad effect of this close is sensi- 
ble ; ' There is not, in my opinion, a more pleasing and triumphant con- 
sideration in religion, than this, of the perpetual progress which the 
soul makes towards the perfection of its nature, without ever arriving at 
a period in it.' (No. 111.) How much more graceful the sentence, if 
it had been so constructed as to close with the word, period. 

Besides particles and pronouns, any phrase which expresses a circum- 
stance only, always brings up the rear of a sentence with a bad grace. 
We may judge of this, by the following sentence from Lord Bolingbroke: 
(Letter on the State of Parties at the Accession of King George I.) 
' Let me, therefore, conclude by repeating, that division has caused all 
the mischief we lament; that union alone can retrieve it ; and that a great 
advance towards this union, was the coalition of parties, so happily 
begun, so successfully carried on, and of late so unaccountably neglected; 
to say no worse.' This last phrase, to say no worse, occasions a sad 
falling off at the end ; so much the more unhappy, as the rest of the 
period is conducted after the manner of a climax, which we expect to 
find growing to the last. 

The proper disposition of such circumstances in a sentence, is often 
attended with considerable trouble, in order to adjust them so, as shall 
consist equally with the perspicuity and the grace of the period. Though 
necessary parts, they are, however, like unshapely stones in a building, 
which try the skill of an artist, where to place them with the least of- 
fence. * Jungantur,' says Quintilian, 'quo congruunt maxime ; sicut in 
structura saxorum rudium, etiam ipsa enormitas invenit cui applicari, et 
in quo possit insistere.'* 

The close is always an unsuitable place for them. When the sense 
admits it, the sooner they are despatched, generally speaking, the better; 
that the more important and significant words may possess the last place, 
quite disencumbered. It is a rule, too, never to crowd too many cir- 
cumstances together, but rather to intersperse them in different parts of 
the sentence, joined with the capital words on which they depend ; pro- 
vided that care be taken, as I before directed, not to clog those capital 
words with them. For instance, when Dean Swift says, ' What I had 
the honour of mentioning to your Lordship, some time ago, in conversa- 
tion, was not a new thought.' (Letter to the Earl of Oxford.) These 
two circumstances, some time ago, and in conversation, which are here 
put together, would have had a better effect disjoined thus : * What I 
bad the honour, sometime ago, of mentioning to your Lordship in con- 

* " Let them be inserted wherever the happiest place for them can be found ; as 
in a structure composed of rough stones, there are always places where the mos.t 
irregular and unshapely may find some adjacent one to which it can be joined, and 
some basis on which it may rest.'' 



LECT. XII.] STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. 219 

versation.' And in the following sentence of Lord Bolingbroke's ; 
(Remarks on the History of England.) 'A monarchy, limited like ours 7 
may be placed, for ought I know, as it has been often represented, just 
in the middle point, from whence a deviation leads, on the one hand, to 
tyranny, and on the other, to anarchy/ The arrangement would have 
been happier thus; ' A monarchy, limited like ours, may, foF aught I 
know, be placed, as it has often been represented, just in the middle 
point,' &c. 

I shall give only one rule more, relating to the strength of a sentence, 
which is, that in the members of a sentence, where two things are com- 
pared or contrasted to one another : where either a resemblance or an 
opposition is intended to be expressed, some resemblance, in the lan- 
guage and construction, should be preserved. For when the things 
themselves correspond to each other, we naturally expect to find the 
words corresponding too. We are disappointed when it is otherwise ; 
and the comparison, or contrast, appears more imperfect. Thus, when 
Lord Bolingbroke says, 'The laughers will be for those who have most 
wit; the serious part of mankind, for those who have most reason on their 
side ;' (Dissert, on Parties, Pref.) the opposition would have been more 
complete, if he had said, ' The laughers will be for those who have most 
wit ; the serious, for those who have most reason on their side.' 

The following passage from Mr. Pope's preface to his Homer, fully 
exemplifies the rule I am now giving : ' Homer was the greater genius; 
Virgil, the better artist : in the one, we most admire the man ; in the 
other, the work. Homer hurries us with a commanding impetuosity 5 
Virgil leads us with an attractive majesty. Homer, scatters with a gen- 
erous profusion ; Virgil bestows with a careful magnificence. Homer, 
like the Nile, pours out his riches with a sudden overflow ; Virgil, like 
a river in its banks, with a constant stream. And when we look upon 
their machines, Homer seems like his own Jupiter, in his terrors, shaking 
Olympus, scattering the lightnings, and firing the heavens ; Virgil, like 
the same power, in his benevolence, counselling with the gods, laying 
plans for empires, and ordering his whole creation.' Periods thus con- 
structed, when introduced with propriety, and not returning too often, 
have a sensible beauty. But we must beware of carrying our attention 
to this beauty too far. It ought only to be occasionally studied, when 
comparison or opposition of objects naturally leads to it. If such a con- 
struction as this be aimed at in all our sentences, it leads to a disagree- 
able uniformity ; produces a regularly returning clink in the period, 
which tires the ear ; and plainly discovers affectation. Among the an- 
cients, the style of Isocrates is faulty in this respect ; and, on that ac- 
count, by some of their best critics, particularly by Dionysius of Hali- 
carnassus, he is severely censured. 

This finishes what 1 had to say concerning sentences, considered, with 
respect to their meaning, under the three heads of perspicuity, unity, 
and strength. It is a subject on which I have insisted fully, for two rea- 
sons: First, because it is a subject, which, by its nature, can be rendered 
more didactic, and subjected more to precise rule, than many other sub- 
jects of criticism ; and next, because it appears to me of considerable im- 
portance and use. 

For though many of these attentions which I have been recommend- 
ing, may appear minute, yet their effect, upon writing and style, is much 
greater than might, at first, be imagined. A sentiment which is express 



\20 STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES. [LE(Cf . Kill 

ed in a period, clearly, neatly, and happily arranged, makes always a 
stronger impression on the mind, than one that is feeble or embarrassed., 
Every one feels this upon a comparison : and if the effect be sensible 
in one sentence, how much more in a whole discourse, or composition, 
that is made up of such sentences ? 

The fundamental rule of the construction of sentences, and into which: 
all others might be resolved, undoubtedly is, to communicate, in the 
clearest and most natural order, the ideas which we mean to transfuse 
into the minds of others. Every arrangement that does most justice 
to the sense, and expresses it to most advantage, strikes us as beautiful. 
To this point have tended all the rules I have given. And, indeed, did 
men always think clearly, and were they, at the same time, fully mas- 
ters of the language in which they write, there would be occasion for 
few rules. Their sentences would then, of course, acquire all those 
properties of precision, unity, and strength, which I have recommended. 
For we may rest assured, that whenever we express ourselves ill, there 
is besides the mismanagement of language, for the most part, some mis- 
take in our manner of conceiving the subject. Embarrassed, obscure, 
and feeble sentences, are generally, if not always, the result of embar- 
rassed, obscure, and feeble thought. Thought and language act and re- 
act upon each other mutually. Logic and rhetoric have here, as in 
many other cases, a strict connexion ; and he that is learning to arrange 
his sentences with accuracy and order, is learning, at the same time, to 
think with accuracy and order ; an observation which alone will justify 
all the care and attention we have bestowed on this subject. 



LECTURE XIII 



STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES.— HARMONY. 

Hitherto we have considered sentences, with respect to their meao^ 
Ing, under the heads of perspicuity, unity, and strength. We are now 
to consider them, with respect to their sound, their harmony, or agree- 
ableness to the ear ; which was the last quality belonging to them that I 
proposed to treat of. 

Sound is a quality much inferior to sense ; yet such as must not be dis- 
regarded. For as long as sounds are the vehicle of conveyance for 
our ideas, there will be always a very considerable connexion be- 
tween the idea which is conveyed, and the nature of the sound which 
conveys it. Pleasing ideas can hardly be transmitted to the mind, by 
means of harsh and disagreeable sounds. The imagination revolts as soon 
as it hears them uttered. ' Nihil,' says Quintilian, * potest intrare in 
affectum, in aure, velut quodam vestibulo, statim offendit.'* Music has 
naturally a great power over all men to prompt and facilitate certain emo- 
tions ; insomuch that there are hardly any dispositions, which we wish 
to raise in others, but certain sounds may be found concordant to those 

* « Nothing can enter into the affections which stumbles at the threshold, by ofc 
tending the eai\' 



L-ECT. XIII.] HARMONY OF SENTENCED, 121 

dispositions, ami tending to promote them. Now, language may, in some 
degree, be rendered capable of this power of music ; a circumstance 
which must needs heighten our idea of language as a wonderful inven- 
tion. Not content with simply interpreting our ideas to others, it can 
give them those ideas enforced by corresponding sounds ; and, to the 
pleasure of communicating thought, can add the new and separate plea- 
sure of melody. 

In the harmony of periods, two things may be considered. First, 
agreeable sound, or modulation in general, without any particular ex- 
pression : Next, the sound so ordered, as to become expressive of the 
sense. The first is the more common ; the second the higher beauty. 

First, let us consider agreeable sound, in general, as the property of 
a well-constructed sentence : and, as it was of prose sentences we have 
hitherto treated, we shall confine ourselves to them under this head. 
This beauty of musical construction in prose, it is plain, will depend 
upon two things ; the choice of words, and the arrangement of them. 

I begin with the choice of words ; on which head, there is not much 
to be said, unless I were to descend into a tedious and frivolous detail 
concerning the powers of the several letters, or simple sounds, of which 
speech is composed. It is evident, that words are most agreeable to the 
ear which are composed of smooth and liquid sounds, w r here there is a 
proper intermixture of vowels and consonants ; without too many harsh 
consonants rubbing against each other ; or too many open vowels in sue* 
cession, to cause a hiatus, or disagreeable aperture of the mouth. It 
may always be assumed as a principle, that whatever sounds are difficult 
in pronunciation, are, in the same proportion, harsh and painful to the 
ear. Vowels give softness ; consonants strengthen the sound of words. 
The music of language requires a just proportion of both ; and will 
be hurt, will be rendered either grating or effeminate by an excess of 
either. Long words are commonly more agreeable to the ear than mo- 
nosyllables. They please it by the composition, or succession of sounds 
which they present to it : and accordingly the most musical languages 
abound most in them. Among words of any length, those are the most 
musical, which do not run wholly either upon long or short syllables, 
but are composed of an intermixture of them ; such as repent, produce , 
velocity, celerity, independent, impetuosity, i 

The next head, respecting the harmony which results from a proper 
arrangemant of the words and members of a period, is more complex, 
and of greater nicety. For, let the words themselves be ever so well 
chosen, and well sounding, yet, if they be ill-disposed, the music of the 
sentence is utterly lost. In the harmonious structure and disposition of 
periods, no writer whatever, ancient or modern, equals Cicero. He had 
studied this with care ; and was fond, perhaps to excess, of what he calls 
the " Plena ac numerosa oratio." We need only open his writings to 
find instances that will render the effect of musical language sensible to 
every ear. What, for example, can be more full, round, and swelling, 
than the following sentence of the 4th Oration against Catiline ? " Co- 
gitate quantis laboribus fundatum imperium, quanta virtute stabilitam li« 
bertatem, quanta Deorum benignitate auctas exaggeratasque fortunas, 
una nox pene delerit." In English, we may take, for an instance of a 
musical sentence, the following from Milton, in his treatise on Educa- 
tion : " We shall conduct you to a hill-side, laborious indeed, at the first 
ascent ; but else, so smooth, so green, so full of goodly prospects, and 

Q. 



12a HARMONY OF SENTENCE?, [LECT. X1H, 

melodious sounds on every side, that the harp of Orpheus was not more 
charming." Every thing in this sentence conspires to promote the har- 
mony. The words are happily chosen ; full of liquid and soft sounds ; 
laborious, smooth, green, goodly, melodious, charming : and these words 
so artfully arranged, that were we to alter the collocation of any one of 
them, we should, presently, be sensible of the melody suffering. For, 
let us observe, how finely the members of the period swell one above 
auother. *' So smooth, so green," — " so full of goodly prospects, and 
melodious sounds on every side ;" — till the ear, prepared by this gradual 
rise, is conducted to that full close on which it rests with pleasure ; — 
-''* that the harp of Orpheus was not more charming." 

The structure of periods, then, being susceptible of a melody very 
sensible to the ear, our next inquiry should be, how this melodious struc- 
ture is formed, what are the principles of it, by what laws is it regulated? 
And, upon this subject, were I to follow the ancient rhetoricians, it would 
be easy to give a great variety of rules. For here they have entered into 
a minute and particular detail ; more particular, indeed, than on any 
other head that regards language. They hold, that to prose as well as to 
verse, there belong certain numbers, less strict, indeed, yet such as can 
be ascertained by rule. They go so far as to specify the feet as they are 
called, that is, the succession of long and short syllables, which should 
enter into the different members of a sentence, and to show what the ef- 
fect of each of these will be* Wherever they treat of the structure of 
sentences, it is always the music of them that makes the principal object, 
Cicero and Quintilian are full of this. The other qualities of precision,* 
unity, and strength, which we consider as of chief importance, they 
handle slightly ; but when they come to the "junctures, et numerus" the 
modulation and harmony, there they are copious. Dionysius of Hali- 
carnassus, one of the most judicious critics of antiquity, has written a 
treatise on the Composition of Words in a Sentence, which is altogether 
confined to their musical effect. He makes the excellency of a sentence 
to consist in four things ; first, in the sweetness of single sounds ; se- 
condly, in the composition of sounds, that is, the numbers or feet ; third- 
ly, in change or variety of sound ; and fourthly, in sound suited to the 
sense. On all these points he writes with great accuracy and refine- 
ment ; and is very worthy of being consulted ; though were one now to 
write a book on the structure of sentences, we should expect to find the 
subject treated of in a more extensive manner. 

In modern times, this whole subject of the musical structure of dis- 
course, it is plain, has been much less studied ; and indeed, for several 
reasons, can be much less subjected to rule. The reasons, it will be ne- 
cessary to give, both to justify my not following the tract of the ancient 
rbe oricians on this subject, and to show how it has come to pass, that a 
part of composition, which once made so conspicuous a figure, now 
drawls much less attention. 

In the first place, the ancient languages, I mean the Greek and the Ro- 
man, were much more susceptible than ours, of the graces, and the 
powers of melody. The quantities of their syllables were more fixed 
and determined ; their words were longer and more sonorous; their 
method of varying the terminations of nouns and verbs, both introduced 
a greater variety of liquid sounds and freed them from that multiplicity 
of little auxiliary words which we are obliged to employ ; and, what is 
of the greatest consequence, the inversions which their languages allow 



fcECr. XIII.] HARMONY OF SENTENCES. 12;> 

ed, gave them the power of placing their words in whatever order was 
mosr suited to a musical arrangement. All these were great advantages 
which they enjoyed above us, for harmony of period. 

In the next place, the Greeks and Romans, the former especially, 
were, in truth, much more musical nations than we ; their genius was 
more turned to delight in the melody of speech. Music is known t© 
have been a more extensive art among them than it is with us ; more 
universally studied, and applied to a greater variety of objects. Several 
learned men, particularly the Abbe du Bos, in his Reflections on Poetry 
and Painting, have clearly proved, that the theatrical compositions of the 
ancients, both their tragedies and comedies, were set to a kind of music. 
Whence the modus fecit, and the tibiis dextris et sinistris, prefixed to the 
editions of Terence's plays. All sort of declamation and public speak- 
ing, was carried on by them in a much more musical tone than it is among 
us. It approached to a kind of chanting or recitative. Among the Athe- 
nians, there was what was called the Nomic melody ; or a particular mea- 
sure prescribed to the public officers, in which they were to promulgate 
the laws to the people ; lest, by reading them with improper tones, the 
laws might be exposed to contempt. Among the Romans, there is a noted 
story of C. Gracchus, when he was declaiming in public having a musi- 
cian standing at his back, in order to give him the proper tones with a pipe 
or flute. Even when pronouncing those terrible tribunitial harangues, by 
which he inflamed the one half of the citizens of Rome against the other - 
this attention to the music of speech was, in those times, it seems,, 
thought necessary to success. Quintilian, though he condemns the ex- 
cess of this sort of pronunciation, yet allows a "■ cantus obscurior" to be 
a beauty in a public speaker. Hence, that variety of accents, acute, 
grave, and circumflex, which we find marked upon the Greek syllables, 
to express not the quantity of them, but the tone in which they were to 
be spoken ; the application of which is now wholly unknown to us. And 
though the Romans did not mark those accents in their writing, yet it ap- 
pears from Quintilian, that they used them in pronunciation : " Quant am 
quale" says he, " comparantes gravi, interrogates acuto tenore conclu- 
dunt." As music then was an object much more attended to in speech, 
among the Greeks and Romans than it is with us ; as, in all kinds of pub- 
lic speaking, they employed a much greater variety of notes, of tones or 
inflections of voice, than we use ; this is one clear reason of their paying 
a greater attention to that construction of sentences, which might best 
suit this musical pronunciation. 

It is farther known, that, in consequence of the genius of their lan- 
guages, and of their manner of pronouncing them, the musical arrange- 
ment of sentences, did, in fact, produce a greater effect in public speak- 
ing among them, than it could possibty do in any modern oration ; ano- 
ther reason why it deserved to be more studied. Cicero, in his treatise, 
entitled, Orator, tells us, "Conciones siepe exclamare vidi, cum verba 
apte cecidissent. Id enim expectant aures."* And he gives a remarka- 
ble instance of the effect of a harmonious period upon a whole assem- 
bly, from a sentence of one of Carbo's orations, spoken in his hearing. 
The sentence was, " Patris dictum sapiens temeritatistiiii comprobravir." 
By means of the sound of which, alone, he tells us, " Tantus clamor con- 

* .." I have often been witness to bursts of exclamation in the public assemblies, 
when sentences closed musically : for that is a pleasure which the ear expects." 



124 HARMONY OF SENTENCES. [LECT. XIIL 

cionis excitatus est, ut prorsus admirabile esset." He makes us remark 
the feet of which these words consist, to which he ascribes the power of 
the melody ; and shows how, by altering the collocation, the whole ef- 
fect would be lost ; as thus : ** patris dictum sapiens comprobravit teme- 
ritas filii." Now though it be true that Carbo's sentence is extremely 
musical, and would be agreeable, at this day, to an audience, yet I can- 
not believe that an English sentence, equally harmonious, would, by its 
harmony alone, produce any such effect on a British audience, or excite 
any such wonderful applause and admiration, as Cicero informs us this of 
Carbo produced. Our northern ears are too coarse and obtuse. The 
melody of speech has less power over us ; and by our simpler and plainer 
method of uttering words, speech is, in truth, accompanied with less 
melody than it was among the Greeks and Romans.* 

For these reasons, I am of opinion, that it is vain to thjnk of bestowing 
the same attention upon the harmonious structure of our sentences, that 
was bestowed by these ancient nations. The doctrine of the Greek and 
Roman critics, on this head, has misled some to imagine, that it might be 
equally applied to our tongue ; and that our prose writing might be re- 
gulated by spondees and trochees, and iambuses and paeons, and other 
metrical feet. But first, our words cannot be measured, or, at least, can 
be measured, very imperfectly by any feet of this kind. For the quantity, 
the length and shortness of our syllables, is not, by any means, so fixed 
and subjected to rule, as in the Greek and Roman tongues ; but very 
often left arbitrary, and determined by the emphasis, and the sense. 
Next, though our prose could admit of such metrical regulation, yet 
from our plainer method of pronouncing all sorts of discourse the effect 
would not be at all so sensible to the ear, nor be relished with so much 
pleasure, as among the Greeks and Romans : and, lastly, this whole doc- 
trine about the measures and numbers of prose, even as it is delivered 
by the ancient rhetoricians themselves, is, in truth, in a great measure, 
loose and uncertain. It appears, indeed, that the melody of discourse 
was a master of infinitely more attention to them, than ever it has been 
to the moderns. But, though they write a great deal about it, they have 
never been able to reduce it to any rules which could be of real use in 
practice. If we consult Cicero's Orator, where this point is discussed 
with the most minuteness, we shall see how much these ancient critics dif- 
fered from one another, about the feet proper for the conclusion, and 
other parts of a sentence ; and how much, after all, was left to the judg- 
ment of the ear. Nor, indeed is it possible to give precise rules con- 
cerning this matter, in any language ; as all prose composition must be 
allowed to run loose in its numbers ; and according as the tenour of a dis- 
course varies, the modulation of sentences must vary infinitely. 

But, although I apprehend, that this musical arrangement cannot be 
reduced into a system, I am far from thinking that it is a quality to be 
neglected in composition. On the contrary, 1 hold its effect to be very 
considerable ; and that every one who studies to write with grace, much 
more, who seeks to pronounce in public, with success, will be obliged to 
attend to it not a little. But it is his ear, cultivated by attention and prac- 

* 'In versu quidem, theaira tota exclarnant si fuit una syllaba aut brevioraut Ion- 
gior. Nee vero multitude pedes novit. nee ullos numeros tenet ; nee illud quod oi- 
fendit, aut cur, aut in quo offendat intelligit ; et tatneti omnium longitudinuni et 
breviutum in souis sicut acutarum, graviumque vocum, judicium ipsa natura in 
aurjbus noslris coliocavlt,' Cicero. Orator, c. 51. 



LECT. XIII.] HARMONY OF SENTENCES. 1&5 

tice, that must chiefly direct him. For any rules that can be given, on 
this subject, are very general. Some rules, however, there are, which 
may be of use to form the ear to the proper harmony of discourse. I 
proceed to mention such as appear to me most material. 

There are two things on which the music of a sentence chiefly depends. 
These are the proper distribution of the several members of it ; and, 
the close or cadence of the whole. 

First, I say, the distribution of the several members is to be carefully 
attended to. It is of importance to observe, that whatever is easy and 
agreeable to the organs of speech, always sounds grateful to the ear. 
While a period is going on, the termination of each of its members forms 
a pause or rest, in pronouncing : and these rests, should be so distributed 
as to make the course of the breathing easy, and, at the same time, should 
fall at such distances, as to bear a certain musical proportion to each 
other. This will be best illustrated by examples. The following sen- 
tence is from Archbishop Tillotson : " This discourse concerning the 
easiness of God's commands, does, all along, suppose and acknowledge 
the difficulties of the first entrance upon a religious course : except only 
in those persons who have had the happiness to be trained up to religion 
by the easy and insensible degrees of a pious and virtuous education." 
Here there is no harmony ; nay, there is some degree of harshness and 
unpleasantness ; owing principally to this, that there is, properly, no 
more than one pause or rest in the sentence, falling betwixt the two 
members into which it is divided, each of which is so long as to occasion 
a considerable stretch of the breath in pronouncing it. 

Observe, now, on the other hand, the ease with which the following sen- 
tence, from Sir William Temple, glides along, and the graceful intervals 
at which the pauses are placed. He is speaking sarcastically of man : 
" But, God be thanked, his pride is greater than his ignorance, and what 
he wants in knowledge, he supplies by sufficiency. When he has looked 
about him, as far as he can, he concludes there is no more to be seen ; 
when he is at the end of his line, he is at the bottom of the ocean ; when 
he has shot his best, he is sure none ever did, or ever can, shoot better, 
or beyond it. His own reason he holds to be the certain measure of 
truth ; and his own knowledge, of what is possible in nuture."*' Here 
every thing is, at once, easy to the breath, and grateful to the ear ; and, 
it is this sort of flowing measure, this regular and proportional division of 
the members of his sentences, which renders Sir William Temple's style 
always agreeable. I must observe at the same time that a sentence,, 
with too many rests, and these placed at intervals too apparently mea- 
sured and regular, is apt to savour of affectation. 

The next thing to be attended to, is, the close or cadence of the whole 
sentence, which, as it is always the part most sensible to the ear, de- 
mands the greatest care. So Quintilian ; u Non igi'ur durum sit, 

* On Ibis instance. He is addressing himself to lady Essex, upon the death of her 
child : '• I was once in hope that what was so violent could not be long : but. when I 
observed your grief to %row stronger with age, and to increase, like a stream, the 
fartherit ran ; when I saw it draw outtO Such unhappy consequences, and to threaten, 
no les- man your child, your aeiith, aid your life, I could no longer forbear this 
endeavour, nor end it without begging of you for God's sake and for your own, for 
your children and your friends, y6ur country and your family, that you would -no 
longer abandon yourself to a disconsolate pa-sion ; but that you would at length 
awaken your piety, give way to your prudence, or, at least, rouse the invincible 
spirit of the Perceys, that never yet shrunk at any disaster.' 



120 HARMONY OF SENTENCES. [LECT. XIIL 

neque abruptum, quo animi, velut, respiFant ac reficiuntur. Hasc est 
series orationis ; hoc auditor expectat ; hie laus oranis declamat."* The 
only important rule that can be given here, is, that when we aim at dignity 
or elevation, the sound should be made to grow to the last ; the longest 
members of the period, and the fullest and most sonorous words, should 
be reserved to the conclusion. As an example of this, the following 
sentence of Mr. Addison's may be given : " It fills the mind (speaking of 
sight) with the largest variety of ideas ; converses with its objects at 
the greatest distance ; and continues the longest in action, without being 
tired or satiated with its proper enjoyments." Every reader must be 
sensible of a beauty here, both in the proper division of the members 
and pauses, and the manner in which the sentence is rounded, and con- 
ducted to a full and harmonious close. 

The same holds in melody, that I observed to take place with respect 
to significancy : that a falling off at the end, always hurts greatly. For 
this reason, particles, pronouns, and little words, are as ungracious to 
the ear, at the conclusion, as I formerly showed they were inconsistent 
with strength of expression. It is more than probable, that the sense 
and the sound have here a mutual influence on each other. That which 
hurts the ear seems to mar the strength of the meaning : and that 
which really degrades the sense, in consequence of this primary effect, 
appears also to have a bad sound. How disagreeable is the following 
sentence of an author, speaking of the Trinity ! " It is a mystery which 
we firmly believe the truth of, and humbly adore the depth of." And how 
easily might it have been mended by this transposition ! " It is a mystery, 
the truth of which we firmly believe, and the depth of which we 
humbly adore." In general it seems to hold, that a musical close, in our 
language, requires either the last syllable, or the penult, that is, the last 
but one, to be a long; syllable. Words which consist mostly of short syl- 
lables, as, contrary, particular, retrospect, seldom conclude a sentence 
harmoniously, unless a run of long syllables, before has rendered them 
agreeable to the ear. 

It is necessary, however, to observe, that sentences so constructed as 
to make the sound always swell and grow towards the end, and to rest, 
either on a long or a penult long syllable, give a discourse the tone of 
declamation. The ear soon becomes acquainted with the melody, and 
is apt to be cloyed with it. If we would keep up the attention of the 
reader or hearer, if we would preserve vivacity and strength in our com- 
position, we must be very attentive to vary our measures. This regards 
the distribution of the members, as well as the cadence of the period. 
Sentences constructed in a similar mariner, with the pauses falling at equal 
intervals, should never follow one another. Short sentences should be 
intermixed with long and swelling ones, to render discourse sprightly, as 
well as magnificent. Even discords, properly introduced, abrupt sounds, 
departures from regular cadence, have sometimes a good effect. Mono- 
tony is a great fault into which writers are apt to fall, who are fond of 
harmonious arrangement : and to have only one tune, or measure, is not 
much better than having none at all. A very vulgar ear w 7 ill enable a 
writer to catch some one melody, and to form the run of his sentences 

* ' Let there be nothing harsh or abrupt in the conclusion of the sentence, on 
which the mind pauses and rests. This is the most material part in the structure of 
discourse. Here every hearer expects to be gratified ; here his applause breaks forth." 



iiiSCT. XIII.] HARMONY OF SENTENCES. 127 

according to it ; which soon proves disgusting. But a just, a correct ear 
is requisite for varying and diversifying the melody ; and hence we so 
seldom meet with authors, who are remarkably happy in this respect. 
f Though attention to the music of sentences must not be neglected, yet 
it must also be kept within proper bounds : for all appearances of an au- 
thor's affecting harmony, are disagreeable : especially when the love of 
it betrays him so far, as to sacrifice, in any instance, perspicuity, preci- 
sion, or strength of sentiment, to' sound. All unmeaning words, intro- 
duced merely to round the period, or fill up the melody, complement a 
numerorum, as Cicero calls them, are great blemishes in writing. They 
are childish and puerile ornaments, by which a sentence always loses 
more in point of weight, than it can gain by such additions to the beauty 
of its sound. Sense has its own harmony, as well as sound ; and, where 
the sense of a period is expressed with clearness, force, and dignity, it 
will seldom happen but the words will strike the ear agreeably; at least ? 
a very moderate attention is all that is requisite for making the cadence 
of such a period pleasing : and the effect of greater attention is often no 
other, than to render composition languid and enervated. After all the la- 
bour which Quintilian bestows on regulating the measures of prose, he 
comes at last, with his usual good sense, to this conclusion : ' In univer- 
sum, si sit necesse, duram potius atque asperam compositionem malim es- 
se, quam effeminatam ac enervem, qualts apud multos. Ideoque, vincta 
quaedam de industria sunt solvenda, ne laborata videantur ; neque ullum 
idoneum aut aptum verbum pragtermittamus, gratia lenitatis.*(Lib.ix.c.4.) 

Cicero, as I before observed, is one of the most remarkable patterns 
of a harmonious style. His love of it, however, is too visible ; and the 
pomp of his numbers sometimes detracts from his strength. The noted 
close of his, essevideatur, which, in the Oration Pro Lege Manilia, occurs 
eleven times, exposed him to censure among his contemporaries. We 
must observe, however, in defence of this great orator, that there is a 
remarkable union, in his style, of harmony with ease, which is always a 
great beauty ; and if his harmony be studied, that study appears to 
have cost him little trouble. 

Among our English classics, not many are distinguished for musical 
arrangement. Milton, in some of his prose works, has very finery 
turned periods ; but the writers of his age indulged a liberty of inver- 
sion, which now would be reckoned contrary to purity of style ; and 
though this allowed their sentences to be more stately and sonorous, yet 
it gave them too much of a Latinised construction and order. Of later 
writers, Shaftesbury is, upon the whole, the most correct in his numbers- 
As his ear was delicate, he has attended to music in all his sentences ; 
and he is peculiarly happy in this respect, that he has avoided the mo- 
notony into which writers, who study the grace of sound, are very apt 
to fall ; having diversified his periods with great variety. Mr. Addison 
has also much harmony in his style ; more easy and smooth, but less va- 
ried, than Lord Shaftesbury. Sir William Temple is, in general, very 
flowing and agreeable. Archbishop Tillotson is too often careless and 

* 'Upon the whole,! would rather choose, that composition should appear rough 
and harsh, if that be necessary, than that it should be enervated and effeminate such 
as we find the style of too many. Some sentences, therefore, which we have studi- 
ously formed into melody, should be thrown loose, that they may not seem too much 
laboured : nor ought we ever to omit any proper or expressive word, for the sake 
of smoothing a period.' 



128 HARMONY OF SENTENCES. [LECT. XW 

languid ; and is much outdone by Bishop Atterbury in the music of his 
periods. Dean Swift despised musical arrangement altogether. 

Hitherto I have discoursed of agreeable sound, or modulation, in 
general. It yet remains to treat of a higher beauty of this kind ; the 
sound adapted to the sense. The former was no more than a simple 
accompaniment, to please the ear ; the latter supposes a peculiar ex- 
pression given to the music. We may remark two degrees of it : First,, 
the current of sound, adapted to the tenour of a discourse; next, to a par- 
ticular resemblance effected between some object, and the sounds that 
are employed in describing it. 

First, I say, the current of sound may be adapted to the tenour of a 
discourse. Sounds have, in many respects, a correspondence with our 
ideas; partly natural, partly the effect of artificial associations. Hence 
it happens, that any one modulation of sound continued, imprints on our 
style a certain character and expression. Sentences constructed with 
the Ciceronian fulness and swell, produce the impression of what is im- 
portant, magnificent, sedate ; for this is the natural tone which such a 
course of sentiment assumes. But they suit no violent passion, no eager 
reasoning, no familiar address. These always require measures 
brisker, easier, and often more abrupt. And, therefore, to swell, or to 
let down the periods, as the subject demands, is a very important rule 
in oratory. No one tenour whatever, supposing it to produce no bad effect 
from satiety, will answer to all different compositions ; nor even to all 
the parts of the same composition. It were as absurd to write a panegy- 
ric, and an invective, in a style of the same cadence, as to set the words 
of a tender love song to the air of a warLke march. 

Observe, how finely the following sentence of Cicero is adapted 
to represent the tranquillity and ease of a satisfied state. ' Etsi homini 
nihil est ma^is optandum qu improspera, aequabdis, perpetuaque fortuna, 
secundo vitse sine ulla offensione cursu ; tamen, si mihi tranquilla et 
placata omnia fuissent incredibili quadam et pene divina, qua nunc 
vestro beneficio fruor, lastitise voluptate caruissem.'* Nothing was ever 
more perfect in its kind : it paints, if we may so speak, to the ear. 
But who would not have laughed, if Cicero had employed such periods, 
or such a cadence as this, in inveighing against Mirk Antony, or Cata- 
line? What is requisite, therefore, is, that we previously fix, in our 
mind, a just idea of the general tone of sound which suits our subject ; 
that is, which the sentiments we are to express most naturally assume, 
and in which they most commonly vent themselves ; whether round or 
smooth, or stately and solemn, or brisk and quick, or interrupted and 
abrupt. This general idea must direct the modulation of our periods ; 
to speak in the style of music, must give us the key note, must form the 
ground of the melody ; varied and diversified in parts, according a$ 
either our sentiments are diversified, or as is requisite for producing a 
suitable variety to gratify the ear. 

It may be proper to remark, that our translators of the Bible have 
often been happy in suiting their numbers to the subject. Grave, 
solemn, and majestic subjects undoubtedly require such an arrangement 
of words as runs much on long syllables ; and, particularly, they require 
the close to rest upon such. The very first verses of the Bible, are 
remarkable for this melody ; ' In the beginning, God created the heavens 

* Oral, ad Quiriteis, post Reditom. 



LECT. XIH.ij HARMONY OF SENTENCES. 129 

and the earth ; and the earth was without form and void ; and darkness 
was upon tbe face of the deep ; and the Spirit of God moved upon the 
face of the waters." Several other passages, particularly some of the 
Psalms, afford striking examples of this sort of grave, melodious con- 
struction. Any composition that rises considerably above the ordinary 
tone of prose, such as monumental inscriptions, and panegyrical charac- 
ters, naturally runs into numbers of this kind. 

But, in the next place, besides the general correspondence of the 
current of sound with the current of thought, there may be a more 
particular expression attempted, of certain objects, by means of resem- 
bling sounds. This can be, sometimes, accomplished in prose composi- 
tion ; but there only in a more faint degree ; nor is it so much expected 
there. In poetry, chiefly, it is looked for ; where attention to sound 
is more demanded, and where the inversions and liberties of poetical 
style give us a greater command of sound ; assisted, too, by theversifi- 
cation, and that cantus obscurior, to which we are naturally led in read- 
ing poetry. This requires a little more illustration. 

The sounds of words may be employed for representing, chiefly,, 
three classes of objects ; first, other sounds ; secondly, motion j and 
thirdly, the emotions and passions of the mind. 

First, I say, by a proper choice of words, we may produce a resem- 
blance of other sounds which we mean to describe, such as, the noise of 
waters, the roaring of winds, or the murmuring of streams. This is 
the simplest instance of this sort of beauty. For the medium through 
which we imitate here is a natural one ; sounds represented by other 
sounds ; and between ideas of the same sense, it is easy to form a con- 
nexion. No very great art is required in a poet, when he is describ- 
ing sweet and soft sounds, to make use of such words as have most li- 
quids and vowels, and glide the softest ; or, when he is describing harsh 
sounds, to throw together a number of harsh syllables, which are of 
difficult pronunciation. Here the common structure of language assists 
him ; for it will be found, that in most languages, the names of many 
particular sounds are so formed, as to carry some affinity to the sound 
which they signify ; as with us, the whistling of winds, the buzz and /mm 
of insects, the hiss of serpents, the crash of falling timber ; and many 
other instances, where the word has been plainly framed upon the 
sound it represents. I shall produce a remarkable example of this 
beauty from Milton, taken from two passages in Paradise Lost, describ- 
ing the sound made, in the one, by the opening of the gates of hell ; in 
the other, by the opening of those of heaven. The contrast between 
the two displays, to great advantage, the poet's art. The first is the 
opening of hell's gates : 



On a sudden open fly, 



With impetuous recoil, and jarring sound 

Th' infernal doors ; and on their hinges grate 

Harsh thunder. B, j, 



Observe, now, the smoothness of the other 
Heaven opened wide 



Her ever-during gates, harmonious sound, 

On golden hinges turning B. ij, 

The following beautiful passage from Tasso's Gierusalemme, has often 
been admired on account of the imitation effected by sound of the thing: 
represented : 



130 HARMONY OF SENTENCES. [LECT. XIII, 

Chiama gli habitator de 1'ombre eterne 

11 rauco suon de la Tartareo tromba ; 

Treman le spaciose atre caverne, 7 

Et l'aer cieco a quel rumor rimbomba ; 

Ni stridendo cosi de la superne 

Regioni dele cielo, il folgor piomba ; 

Ne si scossa giammai la terra, 

Quandi vapori in sen gravida serra. Cant. iv. Stanz. 4. 

The second class of objects, which the sound of words is often em- 
ployed to imitate, is. motion ; as it is swift or slow, violent or gentle, 
equable or interrupted, easy or accompanied with effort. Though 
there be no natural affinity between sound, of any kind, and motion, yet, 
in the imagination, there is a strong one ; as appears from the connex- 
ion between music and dancing. And, therefore, here it is in the poet's 
power to give us a lively idea of the kind of motion he would describe, 
by means of sounds which correspond, in our imagination with that 
motion. Long syllables naturally give the impression of slow motion ; 
as in this line of Virgil : 

I Olli inter sese magna vi brachia tollunt. 

A succession of short syllables f presents quick motion to the mind ; as, 
Quadrupedan te putrSfe^lHtu quatit ungula campum. 
Both Homer and Virgil are great masters of this beauty ; and their 
works abound with instances of it ; most of them, indeed, so often 
quoted, and so well known, that it is needless to produce them. I shall 
give one instance, in English, which seems happy. It is the description 
of a sudden calm on the seas, in a poem, entitled, The Fleece. 

— With easy course 

The vessels glide ; unless their speed be stopp'd 
By dead calms, that oft lie on these smooth seas 
When every zephyr sleeps ; then the shrouds drop; 
The downy feather, on the cordage hung, 
Moves not ; the flat sea shines like yellow gold 
Fus'd in the fire, or like the marble floor 
Of some old temple wide. 

The third set of objects which I mentioned the sound of words as ca- 
pable of representing, consists of the passions and emotions of the mind, 
Sound may, at first view, appear foreign to these : but, that here also, 
there is some sort of connexion, is sufficiently proved by the power 
which music has to awaken, or to assist certain passions, and, according 
as its train is varied, to introduce one train of ideas, rather than another. 
This, indeed, logically speaking, cannot be called a resemblance between 
the sense and the sound, seeing long or short syllables have no natural 
resemblance to any thought or passion. But if the arrangement of syl- 
lables, by their sound alone, recall one set of ideas more readily than 
another, and dispose the mind for entering into that affection which the 
poet means to raise, such arrangement may, justly enough, be said to 
resemble the sense, or be similar and correspondent to it. I admit, that 
in many instances, which are supposed to display this beauty of accom- 
modation of sound to the sense, there is much room for imagination to 
work ; and, according as a reader is struck by a passage, he will often 
fancy a resemblance between the sound and the sense, which others 
cannot discover. He modulates the numbers to his own disposition of 
mind ; and, in effect, makes the music which he imagines himself to 
hear. However, that there are real instances of this kind, and that 



LECT.XIV.j FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 1#1 

poetry is capable of some such expression, cannot be doubted. Dryden's 
Ode on St. Cecilia's Day, affords a very beautiful exemplification of it, 
in the English language. Without much study or reflection, a poet 
describing pleasure, joy, and agreeable objects, from the feeling of his 
subject, naturally runs into smooth, liquid, and flowing numbers. 

Namque ipsa decoram 

Caesariem nato genetrix,lumenque juventae 

Purpureum, et laetos oculis afflarat honores. /En. I. 

Or, 

Devenere locos laetos et amoena vireta 

Fortunatorura, raeraorura sedesque beatas j 

Largior hie campos aether, et lumine vestit. 

Purpure, soleraque su um, sua sidera norant. Ms. VI. 

Brisk and lively sensations, exact quicker and more animated numbers. 

— . Juvenura manus emicat ardens 

Littus in Hesperium. JE$. VII. 

Melancholy and gloomy subjects, naturally express themselves in slow 
measures, and long words : 

In those deep solitudes and awful cells, 
Where heavenly pensive contemplation dwell.?. 

Et caligantem nigra formidine lucum. 
I have now given sufficient openings into this subject : a moderate 
acquaintance with the good poets, either ancient or modern, will suggest 
many instances of the same kind. And with this, I finish the discussion 
of the structure of sentences : Having fully considered them under all 
the heads I mentioned; of perspicuity, unity, strength, and musical 
arrangement. 



LECTURE XIV 



ORIGIN AND NATURE OF FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 

Having now finished what related to the construction of sentences, I 
proceed to other rules concerning style. My general division of the 
qualities of style, was into perspicuity and ornament. Perspicuity, both 
in single words and in sentences, I have considered. Ornament, as far 
as it arises from a graceful, strong, or melodious construction of words, 
has also been treated of. Another, and a great branch of the ornament 
of style, is, figurative language ; which is now to be the subject of our 
consideration, and will require a full discussion. 

Our first inquiry must be, what is meant by figures of speech ? * 

In general, they always imply some departure from simplicity of ex- 

* On the subject of figures of speech, all the writers who treat of rhetoric or com- 
position, have insisted largely. To make references, therefore, on this subject were 
endless. On the foundations of figurative language, in general, one of the most sen- 
sible, and instructive writers appears to me, to be M. Marsais, in his Traili des Tropes 
pour servir oV Introduction a la Rhetor ique et a laLogique. For observations on par- 
ticular figures, the Elements of Criticism may be consulted, where the subject is 
fully handled, and illustrated by a great variety of examples. 



132 ORIGIN AND NATURE OF [LECT. XIV. 

pression; the idea which we intend to convey, not only enunciated to 
others, but enunciated, in a particular manner, and with some circum- 
stance added, which is designed to render the impression more strong and 
vivid. When I say, for instance, ' That a good man enjoys comfort in 
the midst of adversity •' I just express my thought in the simplest man- 
ner possible. But when I say, * To the upright there ariseth light in 
darkness ;' the same sentiment is expressed in a figurative style ; a 
new circumstance is introduced ; light is put in the place of comfort, 
and darkness is used to suggest the idea of adversity. In the same man- 
ner, to say, ' It is impossible, by any search we can make, to explore 
the divine nature ful!y,' is to make a simple proposition. But when we 
say, 'Canst thou, by searching, find out God? Canst thou find out the 
Almighty to perfection ? It is high as heaven, what canst thou do ? 
deeper than hell, what canst thou know V This introduces a figure into 
style ; the proposition being not only expressed, but admiration and 
astonishment being expressed together with it. 

But, though figures imply a deviation from what may be reckoned the 
most simple form of speech, we are not thence to conclude, that they 
imply any thing uncommon or unnatural. This is so far from being the 
case, that, on very many occasions, they are both the most natural, and 
the most common method of uttering our sentiments. It is impossible to 
compose any discourse without using them often ; nay, there are few 
sentences of any length, in which some expression or other, that may 
be termed a figure, does not occur. From what causes this happens, 
shall be afterward explained. The fact, in the mean time, shows, that 
they are to be accounted part of that language which nature dictates to 
men. They are not the inventions of the schools, nor the mere product 
of study : on the contrary, the most illiterate speak in figures, as of- 
ten as the most learned. Whenever the imaginations of the vulgar are 
much awakened, or their passions inflamed against one another, they 
will pour forth a torrent of figurative language as forcible as could be 
employed by the most artificial declaimer. 

What then is it, which has drawn the attention of critics and rhetori- 
cians so much to these forms of speech ? It is this : They remarked, 
that in them consists much of the beauty and the force of language, and 
found them always to bear some characters, or distinguishing marks, by 
the help of which they could reduce them under separate classes and 
heads. To ttiis, perhaps, they owe their name of figures. As the 
figure, or shape of one body, distinguishes it from another, so these forms 
of speech have, each of them, a cast or turn peculiar to itself, which 
both distinguishes it from the rest, and distinguishes it from simple 
expression. Simple expression just makes our idea known to others ; 
but figurative language, over and above, bestows a particular dress 
upon that idea ; a dress, which both makes it to be remarked, and adorns 
it. Hence, this sort of language became early a capital object of atten- 
tion to those who studied the powers of speech. 

Figures, in general, may be described to be that language, which is 
prompted either by the imagination, or by the passions. The justness of 
this description will appear, from the more particular account I am 
afterward to give of them. Rhetoricians commonly divide them into 
two great classes ; figures of words, and figures of thought. The 
former, figures of words, are commonly called tropes, and consist in a 
word's being employed to signify something that is different from its 



LECT. XIV.] FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 130 

original and primitive meaning ; so that if you alter the word, you destroy 
the figure. Thus, in the instance I gave before ; ' Light ariseth to 
the upright in darkness.' The trope consists in ' light and darkness' 
being not meant literally, but substituted for comfort and adversity, on 
account of some resemblance or analogy which they are supposed to bear 
to these conditions of life. The other class, termed figures of thought, 
supposes the words to be used in their proper and literal meaning, and 
the figure to consist in the turn of the thought ; as is the case in excla- 
mations, interrogations, apostrophes, and comparisons ; where, though 
you vary the words that are used, or translate them from one language 
into another, you may, nevertheless, still preserve the same figure in the 
thought. This distinction, however, is of no great use ; as nothing can 
be built upon it in practice ; neither is it always very clear. It is of lit- 
tle importance, whether we give to some particular mode of expression 
the name of a trope, or of a figure ; provided we remember, that figu- 
rative language always imports some colouring of the imagination, or 
some emotion of passion, expressed in our style : and, perhaps, figures 
of imagination, and figures of passion, might be a more useful distribu- 
tion of the subject. But without insisting on any artificial divisions, it 
will be more useful, that I inquire into the origin and the nature of 
figures. Only, before I proceed to this, there are two general observa- 
tions which it may be proper to premise. 

The first is, concerning the use of rules with respect to figurative 
language. I admit, that persons may both speak and write with propriety, 
who know not the names of any of the figu roc: of Speech, nor ever 
studied any rules relating to them. Nature, as was before observed, 
dictates the use of figures ; and, like Mons. Jourdain, in Moliere, who 
had spoken for forty years in prose, without ever knowing it, many a one 
uses metaphorical expressions for good purpose, without any idea of 
what a metaphor is. It will not, however, follow thence, that rules are 
of no service. All science arises from observations on practice. Prac- 
tice has always gone before method and rule ; but method and rule have 
afterward improved and perfected practice in every art. We every 
day meet with persons who sing agreeably, without knowing one note of 
the gamut. Yet, it has been found of importance to reduce these notes 
to a scale, and to form an art of music ; and it would be ridiculous to 
pretend, that the art is of no advantage, because the practice is founded 
in nature. Propriety and beauty of speech are cert.iinly as improvable 
as the ear or the voice ; and to know the principles of this beauty, or 
the reasons which render one figure, or one manner of speech preferable 
to another, cannot fail to assist and direct a proper choice. 

But I must observe, in the next place, that although this part of style 
merits attention, and is a very proper object of science and rule ; al- 
though much of the beauty of composition depends on figurative lan- 
guage ; yet we must beware of imagining that it depends solely, or 
even chiefly, upon such language. It is not so. Thereat place which 
the doctrine of tropes and figures has occupied in systems of rhetoric ; 
the over-anxious care which has been shown in giving names to a vast 
variety of them, and in ranging them under different classes, has often 
led persons to imagine, that if their composition was well bespangled with 
a number of these ornaments of speech, it wanted no other beauty : 
whence has arisen much stiffness and affectation. For it is, in truth, the 
sentiment or passion, which lies under the figured expression, that gives 



|34 ORIGIN AND NATURE OF [LECT.&IV, 

it any merit. The figure is only the dress ; the sentiment is the body 
and the substance. No figures will render a cold or an empty composi- 
tion interesting ; whereas, if a sentiment be sublime or pathetic, it can 
support itself perfectly well without any borrowed assistance. Hence 
several of the most affecting and admired passages of the best authors, 
are expressed in the simplest language. The following sentiment from 
Virgil, for instance, makes its way at once to the heart, without the help 
of any figure whatever. He is describing an Argive, who falls in battle, 
in Italy, at a great distance from his native country : 

Sternitur, infeiix, alieno vulnere, coelurnque 

Aspicit, etdulces moriens reminiscitur Argos.* Mn. X. 781. 

A single stroke of this kind, drawn as by the very pencil of nature, is 
worth a thousand figures. In the same manner, the simple style of Scrip- 
ture : ' He spoke, and it was done ; he commanded, and it stood fast,' 
'God said, let there be light ; and there was light,' imparts a lofty con- 
ception to much greater advantage, than it it had been decorated by the 
most pompous metaphors. The fact is, that the strong pathetic, and the 
pure sublime, not only have little dependence on figures of speech, but 
generally reject them. The proper region of these ornaments is, where 
a moderate degree of elevation and passion is predominant ; and there 
they contribute to the embellishment of discourse, only when there is a 
basis of solid thought and natural sentiment ; when they are inserted in 
their proper place ; and when they rise, of themselves, from the subject 
without being sought after. 

Having premised these observations, I proceed to give an account of 
the origin and nature of figures ; principally of such as have their de- 
pendence on language ; including that numerous tribe which the rheto- 
ricians call tropes. 

At the first rise of language, men would begin with giving names to 
the different objects which they discerned, or thought of. This nomencla- 
ture would, at the beginning, be very narrow. According as men's ideas 



* '•' Anthares had from Argus travell'd far, 

Alcides' friend, and brother of the war; 

Now falling, by another's wound, his eyes 

He casts to Heaven, on Argos thinks and dies." 
In this translation, much of the beauty of the original is lost. l On Argos thinks 
and dies,' is by no means equal to ' dulcis moriens reminiscitur Argos.' ' As he dies 
he remembers his beloved Argos.' It is indeed observable, that in most of those 
tender and pathetic passages, which do so much honour to Virgil, that great po»t 
expresses himself with the utmost simplicity: as 

Te, dulcis conjux,te solo in littore seeum. 

Te veniente die, te decedente canebat. Georg. IV. 

And so in that moving prayer of Evander, upon his parting with his son Pallas : 
At vos O Superi ! et Diviun tu maxime rector, 

Jupiter, Arcadii quseso miserescite regis, 

Et patrias audite preces. Si numina vestra 

Incolumem Pallanta mihi, si fata reservant. s 

Si visurus eum vivo,et venturus in unum, 

Vitarn oro : patiar quemvis durare laborein ! 

Sin aliquem infandum casum, Fortuna, minaris, 

Nunc, O nunc liceat crudelem abrumpere vitam I 

Dura curse ambiguse, dum spes incerta futuri ; 

Dum te, care Puer ! mea sera et sola voluptas ! 

Amplexu teneo : gravior ne nuncius aures 

Vulneret. m N . VII. 572. 



LECT. XIV .] FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 135 

multiplied, and their acquaintance with objects increased, their stockof 
names and words would increase also. But to the infinite variety of ob- 
jects and ideas, no language is adequate. No language is so copious, as 
to have a separate word for every separate idea. Men naturally sought 
to abridge this labour of multiplying words in infinitum; and, in order 
to lay less burden on their memories, made one word, which they had 
already appropriated to a certain idea or object, stand also for some other 
idea or object ; between which and the primary one, they found or fan- 
cied some relation. Thus, the preposition, in, was originally invented 
to express the circumstance of place : " The man was killed in the 
wood." Jn progress of time, words were wanted to express men's be- 
ing connected with certain conditions of fortune, or certain situations of 
mind ; and some resemblance, or analogy, being fancied between these, 
and the place of bodies, the word in, was employed to express men's be- 
ing so circumstanced; as one's being in health, or in sickness, in pros- 
perity, or in adversity, in joy, or in grief, in doubt, or in danger, or in 
safety. Here we see this preposition, in, plainly assuming a tropical sig- 
nification, or carried off from its original meaning, to signify something 
else, which relates to, or resembles it, 

Tropes of this kind abound in all languages, and are plainly owing to 
the want of proper words. The operations of the mind and affections, 
in particular, are, in most languages, described by words taken from sen- 
sible objects. The reason is plain. The names of sensible objects were, 
in all languages, the words most early introduced ; and were, by degrees, 
extended to those mental objects, of which men had more obscure con- 
ceptions, and to which they found it more difficult to assign distinct names, 
They borrowed, therefore, the name of some sensible idea, where their 
imagination found some affinity. Thus, we speak of a piercing judgment, 
and a clear head ; a soft or a hard heart ; a rough or a smooth behaviour. 
We say, inflamed by anger, warmed by love ; swelled with pride, melted 
into grief; and these are almost the only significant words which we 
have for such ideas. 

But, although the barrenness of language, and the want of words be 
doubtless one cause of the invention of tropes ; yet it is not the only, 
nor perhaps, even the principal source of this form of speech. Tropes 
have arisen more frequently, and spread themselves wider, from the in- 
fluence which imagination possesses over language. The train on which 
this has proceeded among all nations, I shall endeavour to explain. 

Every object which makes any impression on the human mind, is con- 
stantly accompanied with certain circumstances and relations that strike 
us at the same time. It never presents itself to our view, isole, as the 
French express it ; that is, independent on, and separated from, every 
other thing ; but always occurs as somehow related to other objects.: 
, going before them, or following them ; their effect or their cause ; re- 
sembling them or opposed to them ; distinguished by certain qualities, or 
surrounded with certain circumstances. By this means, every idea or 
object carries in its train some other ideas, which may be considered 
as its accessories. These accessories often strike the imagination more 
than the principal idea itself. They are, perhaps, more agreeable ideas ; 
or they are more familiar to our conceptions ; or they recall to our mem- 
ory a greater variety of important circumstances. The imagination is 
more disposed to rest upon some of them ; and therefore instead of using 
the proper name of the principal idea which it means to express, it em- 



Igg ORIGIN AND NATURE OF [LECT. XIV, 

ploys, in its place, the name of the accessory or correspondent idea j 
although the principal have a proper and well known name of its own. 
Hence a vast variety of tropical or figurative words obtain currency in 
all languages, through choice, not necessity ; and men of lively imagina- 
tions are every day adding to their number. 

Thus, when we design to intimate the period, at which a state enjoyed 
most reputation or glory, it were easy to employ the proper words for ex- 
pressing this ; but as this is readily connected, in our imagination, with 
the flourishing period of a plant or a tree, we lay hold of this correspon- 
dent idea, and say, ' The Roman empire flourished most under Augustus/ 
The leader of a faction is plain language ; but because the head is the 
principal part of the human body, and is supposed to direct all the ani- 
mal operations, resting upon this resemblance, we say, ' Cataline was the 
head of the party.' The word, voice, was originally invented to signify 
the articulate sound, formed byr the organs of the mouth ; but, as by 
means of it men signify their ideas and their intentions to each other, 
voice soon assumed a great many other meanings, all derived from this 
primary effect. ' To give our voice' for any thing, signified, to give our 
sentiment in favour of it. Not only so ; but voice was transferred to sig- 
nifv any intimation of will or judgment, though given without the least 
interposition of voice in its literal sense, or any sound uttered at all. 
Thus we speak of listening to the voice of conscience, the voice of na- 
ture, the voice of God. This usage takes place, not so much from bar- 
renness of language, or want of a proper word, as from an allusion which 
we choose to make to voice, in its primary sense, in order to convey our 
idea, connected with a circumstance which appears to the fancy to give it 
more sprightliness and force. 

The account which I have now given, and which seems to be a full and 
fair one, of the introduction of tropes into all languages, coincides with 
what Cicero briefly hints, in his third book, De Oratore. "Modus 
transferendi verba late patet ; quam necessitas primum genuit, coacta 
inopia et angustias ; post aute-n delectatio, jucunditasque celebravit. 
Nam ut vestis, frigoris depellendi causa reperta primo, post adhiberi coep- 
ta est ad ornatum etiam corporis et dignitatem, sic verbi translatio insti- 
tuta est inopiae causa, frequent <ta delectationis."* 

From what has been said, it clearly appears, how that must come to 
pass which I had occasion to mention in a former lecture, that all lan- 
guages are most figurative in their early state. Both the causes to which 
I ascribed the origin of figures, concur in producing this effect at the be- 
ginnings of society. Language is. then most barren ; the stock of pro- 
per names which have been invented for things, is small ; and, at the 
same time, imagination exerts great influence over the conceptions of 
men and their method of uttering them ; so that, both from necessity and 
from choice, their speech will, at that period, abound in tropes. For the 
savage tribes of men are always much given to wonder and astonishment. 
Every new object surprises, terrifies, and makes a strong impression on 
their mind ; they are governed by imagination and passion, more than by 

* " The figurative usage of words is very extensive ; an usage to which necessity 
first gave rise on account of the paucity of words, and barrenness of language; 
but which the pleasure that was found in it afterward rendered frequent. For as 
garments were first contrived to defend our bodies from the cold, and afterward, 
were employed for the purpose of ornament and dignity, so figures of speech, in- 
troduced t>y want ? were cultivated for the sake of entertainment." 



li:CT. XlY\j HUbKAXlVE LANGUAGE. \$% 

reason ; and, of course, their speech must be deeply tinctured by their 
genius. In fact, we find, that this is the character of the American and 
Indian languages ; bold, picturesque, and metaphorical ; full of strong al- 
lusions to sensible qualities, and to such objects as struck them most in 
their wild and solitary life. An Indian chief makes a harangue to his 
tribe, in a style full of stronger metaphors than a European would use 
in an epic poem. 

(As language makes gradual progress towards refinement, almost every 
object comes to have a proper name given to it, and perspicuity and pre- 
cision are more studied. But still for the reasons before given, borrowed 
words, or as rhetoricians call them, tropes must continue to occupy a con- 
siderable place. In every language, too, there are a multitude of words, 
which, though they were figurative in their first application to certain ob- 
jects, yet, by long use, lose their figurative power wholly, and come to 
be considered as simple and literal expressions. In this case, are the. 
terms which I remarked before, as transferred from sensible qualities to 
the operations or qualities of the mind, a piercing judgment, a clear 
head, a hard heart, and the like. There are other words which remain 
in a sort of middle state ; which have neither lost wholly their figurative 
application, nor yet retain so much of it, as to imprint any remarkable 
character of figured language on our style ; such as these phrases, * ap- 
prehend one's meaning :' 'enter on a subject :' ' follow out an argument j* 
* stir up strife •' and a great many more, of which our language is full. 
In the use of such phrases, correct writers will always preserve a re- 
gard to the figure or allusion on which they are founded, and will be care- 
ful not to apply them in any way that is inconsistent with it. One may 
be ' sheltered under the patronage of a great man ;' but it were wrong 
to say, ' sheltered under the mask of dissimulation,' as a mask con- 
ceals, but does not shelter. An object, in description, may be ' clothed,* 
if you will, ' with epithets ;' but it is not so proper to speak of its being 
' clothed with circumstances, 9 as the word « circumstances,' alludes to 
standing round, not to clothing. Such attentions as these are requisite 
in the common run of style. 

What has been said On this subject, tends to throw light on the uature 
of language in general, and will lead to the reasons, why tropes or figures 
contribute to the beauty and grace of style. 

First, They enrich language, and render it more copious. By their 
means, words and phrases are multiplied for expressing all sorts of ideas ; 
for describing even the minutest differences ; the nicest shades and co- 
lours of thought ; which no language could possibly do by proper words 
alone, without assistance from tropes. 

Secondly, They bestow dignity upon style. The familiarity of common 
words, to which our ears are much accustomed, tends to degrade style. 
When we want to adapt our language to the tone of an elevated subject, 
■ we should be greatly at a loss, if we could not borrow assistance from 
figures; which, properly employed, have a similar effect on language, 
With what is produced by the rich and splendid dress of a person of 
rank ; to create respect, and to give an air of magnificence to him who 
wears it. Assistance of this kind js often needed in prose compositions ; 
but poetry could not subsist without it. Hence, figures form the constant 
language of poetry. To say, that ' the sun rises,' is trite arid common j 
but it becomes a magnificent image when expressed, as Mr, Thompson 
has done : 



jects 



138 ©RI&IN AND NATURE OF fLECT. XIV* 

Bui yonder comes the powerful king of day, 
Rejoicing in the east. — 

To say that * all men are subject alike to death,' presents only a vulgar 
idea ; but it rises and fills the imagination, when painted thus by Horace ; 

Pallida mors aequo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas 
Regumque turres. 
Or, 

Omnes eodem cogimur; omnium 

Versatur urna, serius, ocyus, 

Sors exitura, et nos in eternum 

Exilium impositura cymbae.* 

In the third place, figures give us the pleasure of enjoying two obje 
presented together to our view, without confusion ; the principal idea 
which is the subject of the discourse, along with its accessory, which 
gives it the figurative dress. We see one thing in another, as Aristotle 
expresses it ; which is always agreeable to the mind. For there is 
nothing with which the fancy is more delighted, than with comparisons, 
and resemblances of objects ; and all tropes are founded upon some rela- 
tion or analogy between one thing and another. When, for instance, in 
place of ' youth,' I say the ' morning of life ;' the fancy is immediately 
entertained with all the resembling circumstances which presently occur 
between these two objects. At one moment, I have in my eye a certain 
period of human life, and a certain time of the day, so related to each 
other, that the imagination plays between them with pleasure, and con- 
templates two similar objects, in one view, without embarrassment or 
confusion. Not only so, but, 

In the fourth place, figures are attended with this farther advantage of 
giving us frequently a much clearer and more striking view of the princi- 
pal object, than if we could have if it were it expressed in simple terms, 
and divested of its accessory idea. This is, indeed, their principal advan- 
tage, in virtue of which, they are very properly said to illustrate a sub- 
ject, or to throw a light upon it. For they exhibit the object, on which 
they are employed, in a picturesque form ; they can render an abstract 
conception, in some degree, an object of sense ; they surround it with ijl 
such circumstances, as enable the mind to lay hold of it steadily, and to 
contemplate it fully. * Those persons,' says one, ' who gain the hearts 
of most people, who are chosen as the companions of their softer hours, 
and their reliefs from anxiety and care, are seldom persons of shining 
qualities, or strong virtues : it is rather the soft green of the soul, on which 
we rest our eyes, that are fatigued with beholding more glaring objects.' 
Here, by a happy allusion to a colour, the whole conception is conveyed 
clear and strong to the mind in one word. By a well chosen figure, even 
conviction is assisted, and the impression of a truth upon the mind, made 
more lively and forcible than it would otherwise be. As in the following 
illustration of Dr. Young's : ' When we dip too deep inpleasure,we always 
stir a sediment that renders it impure and noxious ;' or in this, ' A heart 

* With equal pace, impartial fate 

Knocks at the palace, as the cottage gate. 

On 

We all must tread the paths of fate j 

And ever shakes the mortal urn ; 

Whose lot embarks us soon or late, 

f>n Charon's boat : ah ! never to return Francis. 



LECT. XIV.] FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. 139 

boiling with violent passions, will always send up infatuating fumes to the 
head.' An image that presents so much congruity between a moral and a 
sensible idea, serves like an argument from analogy, to enforce what the 
author asserts, and to induce belief. 

Besides, whether we are endeavouring to raise sentiments of pleasure 
or aversion, we can always heighten the emotion by the figures which we 
introduce ; leading the imagination to a train, either of agreeable or 
disagreeable, of exalting or debasing ideas, correspondent to the impres- 
sion which we seek to make. When we want to render an object beau- 
tiful, or magnificent, we borrow images from all the most beautiful, or 
splendid scenes of nature ; we thereby naturally throw a lustre over our 
object: we enliven the reader's mind ; and dispose him to go along with 
us, in the gay and pleasing impressions which we give him of the subject. 
This effect of figures is happily touched in the following lines of Dr. 
Akenside, and illustrated by a very sublime figure : 



Then th' expressive strain 



Diffuses its enchantment. Fancy dreams 

Of sacred fountains and Elysian groves, 

And vales of bliss; the intellectual power, 

Bends from his awful throne, a wond'ring ear, 

And smiles. — Pleas, of Imaginat. I. 124. 

What I have now explained, concerning the use and effects of figures, 
naturally leads us to reflect on the wonderful power of language ; and, 
indeed we. cannot reflect on it without the highest admiration. What a 
fine vehicle is it now become for all the conceptions of the human mind ; 
even for the most subtile and delicate workings of the imagination ? 
What a pliant and flexible instrument in the hand of one who can em- 
ploy it skilfully ; prepared to take every form which he chooses to give 
it ! Not content with a simple communication of ideas and thoughts, it 
paints those ideas to the eye ; it gives colouring and relievo, even to the 
most abstract conceptions. In the figures which it uses, it sets mirrors 
before us, where we may behold objects, a second time, in their likeness. 
It entertains us, as with a succession of the most splendid pictures : 
disposes, in the most artificial manner, of the light and shade, for viewing 
every thing to the best advantage ; in fine, from being a rude and im- 
perfect interpreter of men's wants and necessities, it has now passed 
into an instrument of the most delicate and refined luxury. 

To make these effects of figurative language sensible, there are few 
authors in the English language, whom I can refer to with more advan- 
tage than Mr. Addison, whose imagination is, at once, remarkably rich, 
and remarkably correct and chaste. When he is treating, for instance, 
of the effect which light and colours have to entertain the fancy, consi- 
dered in Mr. Locke's view of them as secondary qualities, which have 
no real existence in matter, but are only ideas in the mind, with what 
beautiful painting has he adorned this philosophic speculation? 'Things,' 
says he, ' would make but a poor appearance to the eye,*if we saw them 
only in their proper figures and motions. Now, we are every where 
entertained with pleasing shows and apparitions ; we discover imaginary 
glories in the heavens, and in the earth, and see some of this visionary 
beauty poured out upon the whole creation. But what a rough unsightly 
sketch of nature should we be entertained with, did all her colouring 
disappear, and the several distinctions of light and shade vanish ? In 
short, our souls are, at present, delightfully lost, and bewildered in a 
pleasing delusion : and we walk about like the enchanted hero of a 



140 ORIGIN AN© NATURE OF, &c, [&ECT. XIV, 

romance, who sees beautiful castles, woods, and meadows ; and at the 
same time hears the warbling of birds, and the purling of streams ; but, 
upon the finishing of some secret spell, the fantastic scene breaks up, 
and the disconsolate knight finds himself on a barren heath, or in a soli- 
tary desert. ,It is not improbable, that something like this may be the 
state of the soul after its first separation, in respect of the images it will 
receive from matter.' - No. 413, Spectator. 

Having thus explained, at sufficient length, the origin, the nature, and 
the effects of tropes, I should proceed next to the several kinds and 
divisions of them. But, in treating of these, were I to follow the com- 
mon track of the scholastic writers on rhetoric, I should soon become 
tedious, and, I apprehend, useless, at the same time. Their great 
business has been, with a most patient and frivolous industry, to branch 
them out under a vast number of divisions, according to all the several 
modes in w T hich a word may be carried from its literal meaning, into one 
that is figurative, without doing any more ; as if the mere knowledge of 
the names and classes of all the tropes that can be formed, could be of 
any advantage towards the' proper, or graceful use of language. All that 
I propose is, to give, in a few words, before finishing this lecture, a 
general view of the several sources whence the trophical meaning of 
words is derived ; after which I shall, in subsequent lectures, descend to 
a more particular consideration of some of the most considerable figures 
of speech, and such as are in most frequent use ; by treating of which , 
I shall give all the instruction I can, concerning the proper employment 
of figurative language, and point out the errors and abuses w T hichareapt 
to be committed in this part of style. 

All tropes, as I before observed, are founded on the relation which 
one object bears to another ; in virtue of which, the name of the one can 
be substituted instead of the name of the other, and by such a substitu- 
tion, the vivacity of the idea is commonly meant to be increased. These 
relations, some more, gome less intimate, may all give rise to tropes. 
One of the first and most obyious relations is, that between a cause and 
its effect. Hence in figurative language, the cause is sometimes put for 
the effect. Thus, Mr. Addison writing of Italy ; 

Blossoms, and fruits, arid flowers, together rise, 
And the \yhole year in gay confusion lies. 

Where the c whole year' is plainly intended, to signify the effects or 
productions of all the seasons of the year. At other times, again, the 
effect is put for the cause ; as, ' gray hairs' frequently for old age which 
causes gray hairs ; and * shade,' for trees that produce the shade. The 
gelation between the container and the thing contained, is also so intimate 
god obvious, as naturally to give rise to tropes ? 

_ -Jlle impiger hausit 

Spumantem pateram et pleno se proluit auro. 

Where every one sees, that the cup and the gold are put for the liquor, 
that was contained in the golden cup. In the same manner, the name of 
any country is often used to denote the inhabitants of that country ; and 
Heaven very commonly employed to signify God, because he is con- 
ceived as dwelling in heaven- To implore the assistance of Heaven, is 
the same as to implore the assistance of God. The relation betwixt any 
established sign and the thing signified, is a further, source of tropes. 
Hence, 



LECT. XV.] METAPHOR, J4J 

Cedant arma togae : concedat laurea linguae. 
The < toga,' being the badge of the civil professions, and the « laurel' of 
military honours, the badge of each is put for the civil and military cha- 
racters themselves. To ' assume the sceptre,' is a common phrase for 
entering on royal authority. To tropes, founded on these several rela- 
tions, of cause and effect, container and contained, sign and thing signifi- 
ed, is given the name of Metonymy. 

When the trope is founded on the relation between an antecedent and 
a consequent, or what goes before, and immediately follows, it is then 
called a Metalepsis ; as in the Roman phrase of ' Fuit,' or ' Yixit,' to 
express that one was dead. ' Fuit Illium et ingens gloria Dardanidum,' 
signifies, that the glory of Troy is now no more. 

When the whole is put for a part, or a part for the whole ; a genus 
for a species, or a species, for a genus ; the singular for the plural, or 
the plural for the singular number ; in general, when any thing less, or 
any thing more, is put for the precise object meant ; the figure is then 
called a Synecdoche. It is very common, for instance, to describe a 
whole object by some remarkable part of it ; as when we say, ' a fleet 
of so many sail,' in the place of ' ships ;' when we use the * head' for 
the ' person,' the ' pole' for the * earth,' the * waves' for the ' sea.' In 
like manner, an attribute may be put for a subject ; as, * youth andbeau- 
t}%' for 'the young and beautiful :' and sometimes a subject for its attri- 
bute. But it is needless to insist longer on this enumeration, which 
serves little purpose. I have said enough, to give an opening into that 
great variety of relations between objects, by means of which the mind 
is assisted to pass easily from one to another ; andj by the name of the 
one, understands the other to be meant. It is always some accessory 
idea, which recals the principal to the imagination ; and commonly re- 
cals it with more force, than if the principal idea had been expressed. 

The relation which, of all others, is by far the most fruitful of tropes, 
I have not yet mentioned ; that is, the relation of similitude and resem- 
blance. On this is founded what is called the metaphor ; when, in place 
of using the proper name of any object, we employ, in its place, the 
name of some other which is like it ; which is a sort of picture Of it, and 
which thereby awakens the conception of it with more force or grace. 
This figure is more frequent than all the rest put together ; and the lan- 
guage, both of prose and verse, owes to it much of its elegance and 
grace. This, therefore, deserves very full and particular consideration ; 
and shall be the subject of the next lecture. 



LECTURE XV, 



METAPHOR. 

After the preliminary observations 1 have made, relating to figurative 
language in general, I come now to treat separately of such figures of 
speech, as occur most frequently, and require particular attention ; and 
1 begin with metaphor. This is a figure founded entirely on the resem- 
blance which one object bears to another. Hence, it is much allied to 
simile, or comparison, and is indeed no other than a comparison expressed 
jn an abridged form. When I say of some great minister, 6 that he up- 



142 METAPHOR. [LECT. XV. 

holds the state, like a pillar which supports the weight of a whole edifice,' 
I fairly make a comparison ; but when I say of such a minister, ' that 
he is the pillar of the state,' it is now become a metaphor. The com- 
parison betwixt the minister and a pillar is made in the mind ; but is ex- 
pressed without any of the words that denote comparison. The com- 
parison is only insinuated, not expressed : the one object is supposed to 
be so like the other, that, without formally drawing the comparison, the 
name of the one may be put in the place of the name of the other. * The 
minister is the pillar of the state.' This, therefore, is a more lively and 
animated manner of expressing the resemblances which imagination traces 
among objects. There is nothing which delights the fancy "more, than 
this act of comparing things together, discovering resemblances between 
them, and describing them by their likeness. The mind, thus employed, 
is exercised without being fatigued ; and is gratified with the conscious- 
ness of its own ingenuity. We need not be surprised, therefore, at find- 
ing all language tinctured strongly with metaphor. It insinuates itself 
even into familiar conversation ; and unsought, rises up of its own ac- 
cord in the mind. The very words which I have casually employed in de- 
scribing this, are a proof of what I say ; tinctured, insinuates, rises up, are 
all of them metaphorical expressions, borrowed from some resemblance 
which fancy forms between sensible objects, and the internal operations 
of the mind ; and yet the terms are no less clear, and perhaps, more ex- 
pressive, than if words had been used, which were to be taken in the 
strict and literal sense. 

Though all metaphor imports comparison, and, therefore, is, in that 
respect, a figure of thought ; yet, as the words in a metaphor are not 
taken literally, but changed from their proper to a figurative sense, the 
metaphor is commonly ranked among tropes or figures of words. But, 
provided the nature of it be well understood, it signifies very little whether 
we call it a figure or a trope. I have confined it to the expression of 
resemblance between two objects. 1 must remark, however, that the 
word metaphor is sometimes used in a looser and more extended sense ; 
for the application of a term in any figurative signification, whether the 
figure be founded on resemblance, or on some other relation, which two 
objects bear to one another. For instance ; when gray hairs are put for 
old age ; as, ' to bring one's gray hairs with sorrow to the grave ;' some 
writers would call this a metaphor, though it is not properly one, but what 
rhetoricians call a metonymy ; that is, the effect put for the cause ; ' gray 
hairs' being the effect of old age, but not bearing any sort of resemblance 
to it. Aristotle, in his Poetics, uses metaphor in this extended sense, for 
any figurative meaning imposed upon a word ; as a whole put for the 
part, or a part for a whole ; the species for the genus, or a genus for the 
species. But it would be unjust to tax this most acute writer with any 
inaccuracy on this account ; the minute subdivisions, and various names 
of tropes, being unknown in his days, and the invention of later rhetori- 
cians. Now, however, when these divisions are established, it is inac- 
curate to call every figurative use of terms, promiscuously, a metaphor. 

Of all the figures of speech, none comes so near to painting as me- 
taphor. Its peculiar effect is to give light arid strength to description ; 
to make intellectual ideas, in some sort, visible to the eye, by giving them 
colour, and substance, and sensible qualities. In order to produce this 
effect, however, a delicate hand is required : for, by a very little inac- 
curacy, we are in hazard of introducing confusion, in place of promoting 



LECT.XV.j METAPHOR, 14$ 

perspicuity. Several rules, therefore, are necessary to be given for the 
proper management of metaphors. But, before entering on these, I shall 
give one instance of a very beautiful metaphor, that I may show the 
figure to full advantage. I shall take my instance from Lord Boling- 
broke's Remarks on the History of England. Just at the conclusion of 
his work, he is speaking of the behaviour of Charles I. to his last parlia- 
ment ; ' In a word,' says he, 'about a month after their meeting, he 
dissolved them ; and, as soon as he had dissolved them, he repented : 
but he repented too late of his rashness. Well might he repent for the 
vessel was now full, and this last drop made the waters of btterness 
overflow.' * Here,' he adds, ' we draw the curtain, and put ai end to 
our remarks.' Nothing could be more happily thrown off. Tie meta- 
phor, we see is continued through several expressions. The vessel is 
put for the state, or temper of the nation already full, that is, provoked 
to the highest by former oppressions and wrongs ; this last drop, stands 
for the provocation recently received by the abrupt dissolutioi of the 
parliament ; and the overflowing of the waters of bitterness, beautiully ex- 
presses all the effects of resentment, let loose by an exasperatedpeople. 

On this passage, we may make two remarks in passing. The >ne,that 
nothing forms a more spirited and dignified conclusion of a subjiet, than 
a figure of this kind happily placed at the close. We seethe eftfct of it, 
in this instance. The author goes off with a good grace ; and eaves a 
strong and full impression of his subject on the reader's mird. My 
other remark is, the advantage which a metaphor frequently hasabove a 
formal comparison. How much would the sentiment here have leen en- 
feebled, if it had been expressed in the style of a regular similt, thus : 
4 Well might he repent ; for the state of the nation, loaded witl griev- 
ances and provocations, resembled a vessel that was now full, md this 
superadded provocation, like the last drop infused, made their lage and 
resentment, as waters of bitterness, over-Blow.' It has infinitely more 
spirit and force as it now stands, in the form of a metaphor. ' Well 
might he repent : for the vessel was now full ; and this last drcp made 
the waters of bitterness overflow. 

Having mentioned, with applause, this instance from Lord Bolingbroke r 
I think it incumbent on me here to take notice, that though I may have 
recourse to this author, sometimes, foi- examples of style, it is his style 
only, and not his sentiments, that deserve pryise. It is indeed my opinion, 
that there are few writings in the English language, which, forthematter 
contained in them, can be read with less profit or fruit, than Lo^d Bo- 
lingbroke's works. His political writings have the merit of a very lively 
and eloquent style ; but they have no other ; being, as to the substance, 
the mere temporary productions of faction and party ; no better, indeed, 
than pamphlets written for the day. His posthumous, or, as they are 
called, his philosophical works, wherein he attacks religion, ha\e still 
less merit ; for they are as loose in the style as they are flimsy in the 
reasoning. An unhappy instance, this author is, of parts and genius so 
miserably perverted by faction and passion, that, as his memory will de- 
scend to posterity with little honour, so his productions will soon pass, 
and are, indeed, already passing into neglect and oblivion. 

Returning from this digression to the subject before us, I proceed to 
lay down the rules to be observed in the conduct of metaphors ; and 
which are much the same for tropes of every kind. 

The first which I shall mention, is, that they be suited to the nature of 



144 METAPHOR, [mCT: XV 'j 

the subject of which we treat ; neither too many, nor too gay, nor too 
elevated for it ; that we neither attempt to force the subject, by means of 
them, into a degree of elevation which is not congruous to it ; nor, on the 
other haid, allow it to sink below its proper dignity. This is a direction 
which belongs to all figurative language, and should be ever kept in view. 
Some metaphors are allowable, nay, beautiful, in poetry, which it would 
fee absurd and unnatural to employ in prose ; some may be graceful in 
orations, which would be very improper in historical, or philosophical 
^composition. We must remember, that figures are the dress of our sen- 
timents. As there is a natural congruity between dress, and the charac- 
ter or rmk of the person who wears it, a violation of which congruity 
never fals to hurt ; the same holds precisely as to the application of 
figures t» sentiment. The excessive, or unseasonable employment of 
them, ismere foppery in writing. It gives a boyish air to composition ; 
and instead of raising a subject^ in fact, diminishes its dignity. For as in- 
life, truedignity must be founded on character, not on dress and appear- 
ance, so the dignity of composition must arise from sentiment and thought, 
not fromornament. The affectation and parade of ornament, detract as 
much fr»m an author, as they do from a man. Figures and metaphors, 
therefore should,' on no occasion, be stuck on too profusely ; and never 
should be such as refuse to accord with the strain of our sentiment. 
Nothingcan be more unnatural than for a writer to carry on a train of 
reasoning, in the same sort of figurative language, which he would use 
in descrption. When he reasons, we look only for perspicuity ; when 
he descibes, we expect embellishment ; when he divides, or relates, we 
desire painness and simplicity. One of the greatest secrets in composi- 
tion is, to know when to be simple. This always gives a heightening to 
ornameit, in its proper place., The right disposition of the shade makes 
the lighi and colouring strike the more : c Is enim est eloquens,' says 
Cicero,' qui et humilia subtiliter, et magna graviter, et mediocria tempe- 
rate potest dicere. Nam qui nihil potest tranquille, nihil leniter, nihil 
definite) distincte, potest dicere, is, cum non praeparatis auribus inflam- 
mare rem ccepit, furere apud sanos, et quasi inter sobrios bacchari temu- 
lentus vtdetur.'* This admonition should be particularly attended to by 
young fractitioners in the art of writing, who are apt to be carried away 
by an ^distinguishing admiration of what is showy and florid, whether in 
its place or not.f 

Thesecond rule, wbieh I give, respects the choice of objects, from 
whence metaphors and other figures, are to be drawn. The field for 
figurative language is very wide. All nature, to speak in the style of 

* " Heistrulyeloquent,who can discourse of humble subjects in a plain style, who 
can trei important ones with dignity, and speak of things which are of a middle na- 
ture, in * temperate strain. For one who, upon no occasion, can express himself in a 
calm, osderly, distinct manner,when he begins to be on fire before his readers are pre- 
pared to kindle along with him, has the appearance of raving like a madman among 
persons who are in their senses, or of reeling like a drunkard in the midst of sober 
company." 

t What person of the least taste, can bear the following passage in a late historian. 
He is giving an account of the famous act of parliament against irregular marriages 
in Engknd : " The bill," says he, " underwent a great number of alterations and 
amendments which were not effected without violent contest." This is plain lan- 
guage,suitedto the subject; and we naturally espect,that he should go on in the same 
strain ; to tell us, that, after these contests, it was carried by a great majority of 
voices, and obtained the royal assent. But how does he express himself in finishing 
the period ? v At length, however, it was floated through both houses, on the tide of 
a great majority, and steered into the safe harbour of royal approbation." Nothing 
can be more puerile than such language. Smollet's History of England, as quoted 
In Critical Review for Oct 1751, p.. 251- 



LECT. XV.] METAPHOR, 1 45 

figure, opens its stores to us, and admits us, to gather from all sensible ob- 
jects, whatever can illustrate intellectual or moral ideas. Not only the 
gay and splendid objects of sense, but the grave, the terrifying, and even 
the gloomy and dismal, may on different occasions, be introduced into 
figures with propriety. But we must beware of ever using such allusions 
as raise in the mind disagreeable, mean, vulgar, or dirty ideas. Even 
when metaphors are chosen in order to vilify and degrade any object, an 
author should study never to be nauseous in his allusions. Cicero blames 
an oratorof his time, for terming his enemy ' Stercus Curias ;' ' quamvis 
sit simile,' says he, ' tamen est deformis cogitatiosimilitudinis.' But, in 
subjects of dignity, it is an unpardonable fault to intrbduce mean and vul- 
gar metaphors. In the treatise on the Art of Sinking, in Dean Swift's 
works, there is a full and humorous collection of instances of this kind, 
wherein authors, instead of exalting, have contrived to degrade, their 
subjects by the figures they employed. Authors of greater note than 
those which are there quoted, have, at times, fallen into this error. Arch- 
bishop Tillotson, for instance, is sometimes negligent in his choice of me- 
taphors ; as, when speaking of the day of judgment, he describes the 
world, as, ' cracking about the sinners' ears.' Shakspeare, whose ima- 
gination was rich and bold, in a much greater degree than it was delicate, 
often fails here. The following, for example, is a gross transgression ; 
in his Henry V. having mentioned a dunghill, he presently raises a meta= 
phor from the steam of it ; and on a subject too, that naturally led to 
much nobler ideas : 

And those that leave their valiant bones in France, 

Dying like men, though buried in your dunghills, 

They shall be fam'd ; for there the sun shall greet them, 

And draw their honours reeking up to heaven. Act IV. Sc. 6. 

In the third place, as metaphors should be drawn from objects of some 
dignity, so particular care should be taken that the resemblance, which is 
the foundation of the metaphor, he clear and perspicuous, not far fetch- 
ed- nor difficult to discover. The transgression of this rule makes what 
are called harsh or forced metaphors, which are always displeasing, be- 
cause they puzzle the reader, and, instead of illustrating the thought, ren- 
der it perplexed and intricate. With metaphors of this kind, Cowley 
abounds. He, and some of the writers of his age, seem to have con- 
sidered it as the perfection of wit, to hit upon likenesses between objects 
which no other person could have discovered ; and at the same time, to 
pursue those metaphors so far, that it requires some ingenuity to follow 
them out and comprehend them. This makes a metaphor resemble an 
enigma : and is the very reverse of Cicero's rule on this head ; * Vere- 
cunda debet esse translatio ; ut deducta esse in alienum locum non irruis- 
se, atque ut voluntario non vi venisse videatur.'* How forced and ob- 
scure, for instance, are the following verses of Cowley, speaking of his 
mistress : 

Wo to her stubborn heart, if once mine come 
Into the self-same room, 
'Twill tear and blow up all within, 

Like a grenado shot into a magazine. 

* "Every metaphor should be modest, so that it may Carry the appearance o( 
having been led, not of having forced itself into the place of that word whose 
room it occupies ; that it may seem to have come thither of its own accord, and 
not by constraint." De Oratore, Lib. iii. c. 53. 

T 



14G METAPHOR,- [LECT.XV, 

Then shall love keep the ashes and torn parts 
Of both our broken hearts ; 
Shall out of both one new one make ; 
From her's th' alloy, from mine the metal take ; 
For of her heart, he from the flames will find 
But little left behind ; 
Mine only will remain entire, 
No dross was there to perish in the fi re. 

In tfjis manner he addresses sleep : 

In vain, thou drowsy god, I thee invoke : 
For thou, who dost from fumes arise, 
Thou who man's soul dost overshade « 
With a thick cloud by vapours made 5 
Canst have no power to shut his eyes, 
Whose flame's so pure that it sends up no smoke 
Yet how do tears but from some vapours rise ! 
Tears that bewinter all my year ; 
The fate of Egypt I sustain, 
And never feel the dew of rain, 
From clouds which in the head appear. 
But all my too much moisture owe 
To overflowings of the heart below.* 

Trite and common resemblances should indeed be avoided in our'tueta 
phors. To be new, and not vulgar, is a beauty. But when they are 
fetched from some likeness too remote, and lying too far out of the road 
f>f ordinary thought, then, besides their obscurity, they have also the 
disadvantage of appearing laboured, and, as the French call it, ' recher- 
ehe :' whereas metaphor, like every other ornament, loses its whole 
grace, when it does not seem natural and easy. 

It is but a bad and ungraceful softening which writers sometimes use for 
n harsh metaphor, when the palliate it with the expression, as it were. 
This is but an awkward parenthesis ; and metaphors, which need this 
apology of an as it were, would, generally, have been better omitted. 
Metaphors, too, borrowed from any of the sciences, especially such of 
them as belong to particular professions, are almost always faulty by 
their obscurity. 

In the fourth place, it must be carefully attended to, in the conduct of 
metaphors, never to jumble metaphorical and plain language together ; 
never to construct a period so, that part of it must be understood meta- 
phorically, part literally ; which always produces a most disagreeable 
confusion. Instances, which are but too frequent, even in good authors, 
will make this rule, and the reason of it, be clearly understood. In Mr. 
Pope's translations of the Odyssey, Penelope, bewailing the abrupt de- 
parture of her son Telemachus, is made to speak thus : 

Long to my joys my dearest lord is lost, 

His country's buckler, and the Grecian boast ; 

Now from my fond embrace by tempests torn, 

Our other column of the state is borne, 

Nor took a kind adieu, nor sought consent, t iv. 963. 

* See an excellent criticism on this sort of metaphysical poetry, in Dr. Johnson's 
&ife of Cowley. 
f In the original, there is no allusion to a column, and the Metaphor is regularly 

supported. __ " 

'H ftp tv piv uocrtv i<rB\ov &r:»>y.i<ra. Stf/xoteovra, 
TLavrows dgtr'ij<ri Kiv.aa-y.tVGV tv Axva.oi<rt 
E<r6Aop, th xhtoe tvgu KstS' 'EWuxJk k&i fxivov 'Afyas' 
Nwv J' av Trotto' Ayuirxrov uvu^ti-^avro &vift,ctt 



LECT. XV.j METAPHOR, 147 

Here, in one line, her son is figured as a column ; and in the next, he 
returns to be a person, to whom it belongs to take adieu, and to ask con- 
sent. This is inconsistent. The poet should either have kept himself to 
the idea of man in the literal sense ; or, if he figured him by a column, 
he should have ascribed nothing to him, but what belonged to it. He 
ivas not at liberty to ascribe to that column the actions and properties of 
a man. Such unnatural mixtures render the image indistinct : leaving it 
to waver in our conception, between the figurative and the literal sense. 
Horace's rule, which he applies to characters, should be observed by all 
writers who deal in figures : 

Servelur ad imum, 

Qualis ab incepto processerit, et sibi constet,. 

Mr. Pope, elsewhere, addressing himself to the king, says, 

To thee the world its present homage pays, 
The harvest early, but mature the praise. 

This, though not so gross, is a fault, however, of the same kind. It is 
plain, that, had not the rhyme misled him to the choice of an improper 
phrase, he would have said, 

The harvest early, but mature the crop ; 
And so would have continued the figure which he had begun. Whereas, 
by dropping it unfinished, and by employing the literal word praise, when 
we were expecting something that related to the harvest, the figure is 
broken, and the two members of the sentence have no proper correspon 
dence with each other : 

The harvest early, but mature the praise. 

The works of Ossian abound with beautiful and Correct metaphors j 
such as that on a hero ; * In peace, thou art the gale of spring; in war the 
mountain storm.' Or this, on a woman : ' She was covered with the light 
of beauty ; but her heart was the house of pride.' They afford, how- 
ever, one instance of the fault we are now censuring: ' Trothal went forth 
with the stream of his people, but they met a rock : for Fingal stood 
unmoved ; broken, they rolled back from his side. Nor did they roll in 
safety ; the spear of the king pursued their flight.' At the beginning, the 
metaphor is very beautiful. The stream, the unmoved rock, the. waves, 
rolling back broken, are expressions employed in the proper and con- 
sistent language of figure ; but, in the end, when we are told, < they did 
not roll in safety, because the spear of the king pursued their flight,' the 
literal meaning is improperly mixed with the metaphor : they are, at 
one and the same time, presented to us as waves that roll, and men that 
may be pursued and wounded with a spear. If it be faulty to jumble 
together, in this manner, metaphorical and plain language, -it is still 
more so, 

In the fifth place, to make two different metaphors meet on one object. 
This is what is called mixed metaphor, and is indeed one of the grossest 
abuses of this figure ; such as Shakspeare's expression, ' to take arms 
against a sea of troubles.' This makes a most unnatural medley, and 
confounds the imagination entirely. Quintilian has sufficiently guarded 
us against it. ' Id imprimis est custodiendum, ut quo genere coeperis 
translations, hoc finias. Miilti autem cum initium 3 tempestate sumse- 
runt, incendio aut ruina finiunt ; quoe est inconsequentia rerum foedis^U 



148 METAPHOR. [LECT.XV. 

ma.'* Observe for instance, what an inconsistent groupe of objects is 
brought together by Shakspeare, in the following passage of the Tem- 
pest ; speaking of persons recovering their judgment after the enchant* 
meof. which held them 5 was dissolved : 



: The charm dissolves apace, 

And as the morning steals upon the night, 
Melting the darkness, so their rising senses 
Begin to chase the ignorant fum-s that mantle 
Their clearer reason.— ■ 

rio many ill-sorted things are here joined, that the mind can see nothing 
clearly ; the morning stealing upon the darkness, and at the same time 
melting it ; the senses of men chasing fumes, ignorant fumes, and/wraes 
that mantle. So again in Romeo and Juliet : 

As glorious, 



As is a winged messenger from heaven,^ 
Unto the white upturned wondering eyes 
Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him, 
When he bestrides the lazy pacing clouds. 
And sails upon the bosom of the air. 

Here the angel is represented, as at one moment, bestriding the clouds, 
and sailing upon the air ; and upon the bosom of the air too ; which 
forms such a confused picture, that it is impossible for any imagination 
to comprehend it. 

Blore correct writers than Shakspeare, sometimes fall into this error of 
mixing metaphors. It is surprising how the following inaccuracy should 
have escaped Mr. Addison, in his Letter from Italy ; 

I bridle in my struggling Muse with pain, 
That longs to launch into a bolder strain.t 

The Muse, figured as a horse, may be bridled ; but when we speak of 
launching, we make it a ship ; and, by no force of imagination can it be 
supposed both a horse and a ship at one moment ; bridled to hinder it 
from launching. The same author, in one of his numbers in the Spec- 
tator, says, ' There is not a single view of human nature, which is not 
sufficient to extinguish the seeds of pride.' Observe the incoherence of 
the things here joined together, making ' a view extinguish, and extin- 
guish seeds.' 

Horace also, is incorrect, in the following passage: 

Urit enim fulgore suo qui praegravat artes 
Infra se positas. 

Urit qui pr&gravat. He dazzles who bears down with his weight ; 
makes plainly an inconsistent mixture of metaphorical ideas. Neither 
can this other passage be altogether vindicated : 

Ah ! quanta laboras in Charybdi ; 
Digne puer meliore flamm& ! 

Where a whirlpool of water, Charybdis, is said to be a flame not good 
enough for this young man ; meaning that he was unfortunate in the 
object of his passion. Flame is, indeed, become almost a literal word 
for the passion of love : But as it still retains, in some degree, its figura- 

* "We must be particularly attentive to end with the same kind of metaphor 
with which we have begun. Some when they begin the figure with a tempest, con- 
clude it with a conflagration ; which forms a shameful inconsistency." 

t In my observation on this passage, I find that I had coincided with Dr. Johnson- 
Who passes a similar censure upon it, in his Life of Addison, 



&ECT.XV.J METAPHOR, 149 

tive power, it should never have been used as synonymous with water, 
and mixed with it in the same metaphor. When Mr. Pope (Eloisa to 
Abelard) says, 

All then is full possessing and possest, 
No craving void left aching in the breast; 

A void may, metaphorically, be said to crave ; but can a void be said to 
ache ? 

A good rule has been given for examining the propriety of metaphors, 
when we doubt whether or not they be of the mixed kind ; namely, that 
we should try to form a picture upon them and consider how the parts 
would agree, and what sort of figure^he whole would present, whea 
delineated with a pencil. By this paeans, we should become sensible 
whether inconsistent circumstances were mixed, and a monstrous image 
thereby produced, as in all those faulty I instances, have now been giv- 
ing ; or whether the object was all along, presented in one natural and 
consistent point of view. 

As metaphors ought never to be mixed, so, in the sixth place, we 
should avoid crowding them together on the same subject. Supposing 
each of the metaphors to be preserved distinct, yet, if they be heaped 
on one another, they produce a confusion somewhat of the same kind 
with the mixed metaphor. We may judge of this by the following pas- 
sage from Horace : 

Motum ex Metello consule civicum, 
Bellique causas, et vilia, et modos, 

Ludnmque fortunae, gravesque 

Prinoipum amicitias, et arma 
Nondurn ex iatis uncta cruoribus, 
Periculosae plenum opus aleae, 

Tractds, et incedis per ignes 

Suppositos cineri doloso.* Lib. h\ I» 

This passage, though very poetical, is, however, harsh and obscure ; 
owing to no other cause but this, that three distinct metaphors are 
crowded together, to describe the difficulty of Pollio's writing a history 
of the civil wars. First, < Tractas arma uncta cruoribus nondum ex- 
piatis ;' next, ' opus plenum periculosae aleae ;' and then ; 'Incedis per 
sgnes suppositos doloso cineri.' The mind has difficulty in passing 
readily through so many different views given it, in quick succession, of 
the same object. 

The only other rule concerning metaphors which I shall add, in the 
seventh place, is, that they be not too fur pursued. If the resemblance, 
on which the figure is founded, be long dwelt upon, and carried into all 
its minute circumstances, we make an allegory instead of a metaphor; we 

* Of warm <:ommotions, wrathful jars, 

The growing seeds of civil wars; 

Of double fortune's erne' games, 

The -pecious means, the private aims, 
And fatal friendships of the guilty great, 
Alas ! how fatal to the Roman state 1 

Of mighty legions late subdu'd, 

And arms with Latian blood embru'd ; 

Yet unaton'd, (a labour vast ! 

Doubtful the die, and dire the cast !) 
You treat adventurous, and incautious tread 
On fires with faithless embers overspread. Francis. 



150 ALLEGORY. [LECT. XS'* 

tire the reader, who soon becomes weary of this play of fancy ; and we 
render our discourse obscure. This is called straining a metaphor. Cow- 
ley deals in this to excess; and to this error is owing, in a great measure, 
that intricacy and harshness, in his figurative language, which I before 
remarked. Lord Shaftesbury is sometimes guilty of pursuing his meta- 
phors too far. Fond, to a high degree, of every decoration of style, when 
once he had hit upon a figure that pleased him, he was extremely loath to 
part with it. Thus, in his Advice to an Author, having taken up soliloquy 
or meditation, under the metaphor of a proper method of evacuation for 
an author, he pursues this metaphor through several pages, under all the 
forms ■ of discharging crudities, throwing off froth and scum, bodily ope- 
ration, taking phytic, curing indigestion, giving vent to choler, bile, flatu- 
lencies, and tumours;' till at last, the idea becomes nauseous. Dr. Young, 
also, often trespasses in the same way. The merit, however, of this wri- 
ter, in figurative language, is great, and deserves to be remarked. No 
writer, ancient or modern, had a stronger imagination than Dr. Young, or 
one more fertile in figures of every kind. His metaphors are often new, 
and often natural and beautiful. But, as his imagination was strong and 
rich, rather than delicate and correct,hesometimes gives it too loose reins. 
Hence, in his Night Thoughts, there prevails an obscurity, and a hardness 
i in big style. The metaphors are frequently too bold, and frequently too 
far pursued; the reader is dazzled, rather than enlightened ; and kept 
constantly on the stretch to comprehend, and keep pace with the author. 
We may observe, for instance, how the following metaphor is spun out, 

Thy thoughts are vagabond ; all outward bound, 

Midst sands and rocks, and storms, to cruise for pleasure ; 

It gain'd dear bought : and better miss'd than gain'd, 

Fancy and sense, from an infected shore, 

Thy cargo brings ; and pestilence the prize : 

Then such the thirst, insatiable thirst, 

By fond indulgence butinflam'dthe more, 

Fancy still cruises, when poor sense is tir'd. 

Speaking of old age, he says, it should 

Walk thoughtful on the silent solemn shore 

Of that vast ocean, it must sail so soon ; 

And put good works on board ; and wait the wind 

That shortly blows us into worlds unknown. 

The two first lines are uncommonly beautiful ; « walk thoughtful on 
the silent,' &c. but when he continues the metaphor, ' to putting good 
works on board, and waiting the wind,' it plainly becomes strained, and 
sinks in dignity. Of all the English authors, I know none so happy in 
his metaphors as Mr. Addison. His imagination was neither so rich nor 
so strong as Dr. Young's; but far more chaste and delicate. Perspicuity, 
natural grace, and ease, always distinguish his figures. They are neither 
harsh nor strained ; they never appear to have been studied or sought 
after ; but seem to rise of their own accord from the subject, and con- 
stantly embellish it. 

I have now treated fully of the metaphor, and the rules that should 
govern it, a part of style so important, that it required particular illustra- 
tion. I have only to add a few words concerning allegory. 

An allegory may be regarded as a continued metaphor ; as it is the 
representation of some one thing by another that resembles it, and that is 



LECT. XV.] ALLEGORY. J5J 

made to stand for it. Thus in Prior's Henry and Emma, Emma, in the 
following allegorical manner, describes her constancy to Henry; 

Did I but propose to embark with thee 
On the smooth surface of a summer's sea, 
While gentle zephyrs play with prosperous gales, 
And fortune's favour fills the swelling sails; 
But would forsake the ship, and make the shore, 
When the winds whistle, and the tempests roar ; 

We may take also from the Scriptures a very fine example of an alle- 
gory, in the 80th Psalm ; where the people of Israel are represented 
tinder the image of a vine, and the figure is supported throughout with 
great correctness and beauty ; ' Thou hast brought a vine out of Egypt, 
thou hast cast out the heathen, and planted it. Thou preparedst room 
before it, and didst cause it to take deep root, and it filled the land. The 
hills were covered with the shadow of it ; and the boughs thereof were 
like the goodly cedars. She sent out her boughs into the sea, and her 
branches into the river. Why hast thou broken down her hedges, so that 
all they which pass by the way do pluck her ? The boar out of the wood 
doth waste it ; and the wild beasts of the field doth devour it. Return, 
we beseech thee, O God of Hosts, look down from heaven, and behold, 
and visit this vine !' Here there is no circumstance, (except perhaps one 
phrase at the beginning, 4 thou hast cast out the heathen') that does not 
strictly agree to a vine, whilst, at the same time, the whole quadrates hap- 
pily with the Jewish state represented by this figure. This is the first 
and principal requisite in the conduct of an allegory, that the figurative 
and the literal meaning be not mixed inconsistently together. For in- 
stance, instead of describing the vine, as wasted by the boar from the 
wood, and devoured by the wild beast of the field, had the Psalmist said, 
it was afflicted by heathens, or overcome by enemies, (which is the real 
meaning) this would have ruined the allegory, and produced the same 
confusion, of which I gave examples in metaphors, when the figurative 
and literal sense are mixed and jumbled together. Indeed, the same rules 
that were given for metaphors, may also be applied to allegories, on ac- 
count of the affinity they bear to each other. The only material differ- 
ence between them, besides the one being short and the other being pro- 
longed, is, that a metaphor always explains itself by the words that are 
connected with it in their proper and natural meaning ; as when I say 
* Achilles was a lion ;' an ' able minister is the pillar of the state.' My 
lion and my pillar are sufficiently interpreted by the mention of Achilles 
and the minister, which I join to them ; but an allegory, is, or may be 
allowed to stand more disconnected with the literal meaning ; the inter- 
pretation not so directly pointed out, but left to our own reflection. 

Allegories were a favourite method of delivering instructions in an- 
cient times ; for what we call fables or parables are no other than alle- 
gories ; where by \vords and actions attributed to beasts or inanimate 
objects, the dispositions of men are figured ; and what we call the moral, 
is the unfigured sense or meaning of the allegory. An enigma or 
riddle is also a species of allegory ; one thing represented or imagined 
by another ; but purposely wrapt up under so many circumstances, as 
to be rendered obscure. Where a riddle is not intended, it is always 
a fault in allegory to be too dark. The meaning should be easily seen 
through the figure employed to shadow it. However, the proper 
mixture of light and shade in such compositions, the exact adjustment 
of all the figurative circumstances with the literal sense, so as neither to 



II 



2o2 HYPERBOLE. [LECT. XVf. 

lay the meaning too bare and open, nor to cover and wrap it up too 
much, has ever been found an affair of great nicety ; and there are 
few species of composition in which it is more difficult to write so as to 
please and command attention, than in allegories. In some of the 
visions of the Spectator, we have examples of allegories very happily 
executed. 



LECTURE XVI, 



HYPERBOLE— PERSONIFICATION.— APOSTROPHE. 

The next figure concerning which I am to treat, is called hyperbole, 
or exaggeration. It consists in magnifying an object beyond its natural 
bounds. It may be considered sometimes as a trope, and sometimes as 
a figure of thought : and here indeed the distinction between these two 
classes begins not to be clear, nor is it of any importance that we 
should have recourse to metaphysical subtilties, in order to keep them 
distinct. Whether we call it trope or figure, it is plain that it is a mode 
of speech which hath some foundation in nature. For in all languages, 
even in common conversation, hyperbolical expressions very frequently 
occur : as swift as the wind ; as white as the snow ; and the like : and 
our common forms of compliment are almost all of them extravagant 
hyperboles. If any thing be remarkably good or great in its kind, we 
are instantly readj' to add to it some exaggerating epithet ; and to make 
it the greatest or best we ever saw. The imagination has always a 
tendency to gratify itself, by magnifying its present object, and carrying 
it to excess. More or less of this hyperbolical turn will prevail in lan- 
guage, according to the liveliness of imagination among the people who 
speak it Hence young people always deal much in hyperboles. — 
Hence the language of the Orientals was far more hyperbolical than 
that of the Europeans, who are of more phlegmatic, or, if you please, of 
more correct imagination. Hence, among all writers in early times, 
and in the rude periods of society, we may expect this figure to abound. 
Greater experience, and more cultivated society, abate the warmth of 
imagination, and chasten the manner of expression. 

The exaggerated expressions, to which our ears are accustomed in 
conversation, scarcely strike us as hyperboles. In an instant we make 
the proper abatement, and understand them according to their just value. 
But when there is something striking and unusual in the form of a hy- 
perbolical expression, it then rises into a figure of speech which draws 
our attention : and here it is necessary to observe, that, unless the 
reader's imagination be in such a state as disposes it to rise and swell 
along with the hyperbolical expression, he is always hurt and offended by 
it. For a sort of disagreeable force is put upon him ; he is required to 
strain and exert his fancy, when he feels no inclination to make any such 
effort. Hence the hyperbole is a figure of difficult management; and 
ought neither to be frequently used, nor long dwelt upon. On r-ome oc- 
casions, it is undoubtedly proper ; being, as was before observed, the na- 



KEC'f. XVI.': HYPERBOLE. iod 

tural style of a sprightly and heated imagination, but when hyperboles 
are unseasonable, or too frequent, they render a composition frigid and 
unaffecting. They are the resource of an author of feeble imagination ; 
of one. describing objects which either want native dignity in them- 
selves, or whose dignity he cannot show by describing them simply and 
in their just proportions, and is therefore obliged to rest upon tumid and 
exaggerated expressions, 

Hyperboles are of two kinds ; either such as are employed in descrip- 
tion, or such as are suggested by the warmth of passion. The best, 
by far, are those which are the effect of passion ; for if the imagination 
has a tendency to magnify its objects beyond their natural proportion, 
passion possesses this tendency in a vastly stronger degree ; and there- 
fore not only excuses the most daring figures, but very often renders 
them natural and just. All passions, without exception, love, terror, 
amazement, indignation, anger, and even grief, throw the mind into con- 
fusion, aggravate their objects, and, of course, prompt a hyperbolical 
style. Hence the following sentiments of Satan in Milton, as strongly 
as they are described, contain nothing but what is natural and proper ; 
exhibiting the picture of a mind agitated with rage and despair. 

Me, miserable ! which way shall T fly 

Infinite wrath and infinite despair ? 

Which way I fly is hell, myself am helf, 

And in the lowest depth ; a lower deep, 

Still threat'ning to devour me, opens wide. 

To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven. E. iv. 1. 7& 

In simple description, though hyperboles are not excluded, yet they 
must be used with more caution, and require more preparation, in order 
to make the mind relish them. Either the object described must be of 
that kind, which of itself seizes the fancy strongly, and disposes it to run 
beyond bounds ; something vast, surprising, and new ; or the writer's 
art must be exerted in heating the fancy gradually, and preparing it to think 
highly of the object which he intends to exaggerate. When a poet is 
describing an earthquake or a storm, or when he has brought us into the 
midst of a battle, we can bear strong hyperboles without displeasure. 
But when he is describing only a woman in grief, it is impossible not to 
be disgusted with such wild exaggerations as the following, in one of our 
dramatic poets : 

- I found her on the floor 

In all the storm of grief, yet beautiful : 

Pouring forth tears at such a lavish rate, 

That were the world on (ire, they might have drown'd 

The wrath of Heaven, andquench'd the mighty ruin. Lee. 

This is mere bombast. The person herself, who was under the dis- 
tracting agitations of grief, might be permitted to hyperbolize strongly ; 
but the spectator, describing her, cannot be allowed an equal liberty ; for 
this plain reason, that the one is supposed to utter the sentiments of pas- 
sion, the other speaks only the language of description, which is always, 
according to the dictates of nature, on a lower tone ; a distinction, which., 
however obvious, has not been attended to by many writers. 

How far a hyperbole, supposing it properly introduced, may be safely 
carried without overstretching it ; what is the proper measure and bound- 
ary of this figure, cannot, as far as I know, be ascertained by any pre- 
cise rule. Good sense and just taste must determine the point, bevon^, 

U 



|54 PERSONIFICATION, [LECT. XVI 

which, if we pass, we become extravagant. Lucan may be pointed out 
as an author apt to be excessive in his hyperboles. Among the compli- 
ments paid by the Roman poets to their Emperors, it had become fash- 
ionable to ask them, what part of the heavens they would choose for 
their habitation , after they should have become gods ? Virgil had already 
earried this sufficiently far in his address to Augustus: 

Tibi brachia contrahit ingens 

Seorpius, et Cceli justa plus parte relinquit.* Geor. I. 

But this did not suffice Lucan. Resolved to outdo all his predecessors, 
in a like address to Nero, he very gravely beseeches him not to ch6ose 
his place near either of the poles, but to be sure to occupy just the middle 
of the heavens, lest, by going either to one side or the other, his weight 
should overset the universe : 

Sed neque in Arcioo sedem tibi legeris orbe, 

Nee polus adversi calidus qua mergitur austri; 

JEtheris immensi partem si presseris unam 

Sen tie t axis onus. Librati pondera Cceli 

Orbe tene medio.t Phars. I* 53. 

Such thoughts as these are what the French call outres, and always pro- 
ceed from a false fire of genius. The Spanish and African writers, as 
Tertullian, Cyprian, Augustin, are remarked for being fond of them, 
As in the epitaph on Charles V. by a Spanish writer : 

Pro 'tumulo ponas orbem, protegraine caelum,, 
Sidera pro facibus, pro lacrymis maria. 

Sometimes they dazzle and impose by their boldness ; but wherever 
reason and good sense are so much vioIated r there can be no true beauty. 
Epigrammatic writers are frequently guilty in this respect ; resting the 
whole merit of their epigrams ou some extravagant hyperbolical turn ; 
such as the following of Dr. Pitcairn's, upon Holland's being gained from 
the ocean ; 

Tellurem fecere Dii ; sua littora Belgse ~, 
Immensaeque raolis opus utruraque fuit ; 

Dii vacuo sparsas glomerarunt seth ere terras. 
Nil ibi quod operi possit obesse fuit. 
At Belgis maria et cceli naturaque reruui 
Obstitit ; obstantes hi domuere Deos. 

So much for hyperbole. We proceed now to those figures which lie al- 
together in the thought j where the words are taken in their common and 
literal sense. 

Among these, the first place is unquestionably due to Personification, 
or that figure by which we attribute life and action to inanimate objects. 
The technical term for this is Prosopopoeia ; but as Personification is of 

* ' The Scorpion, ready to receive ,thy laws, 

Yields half his region, and contracts his paws.' Dryben. 

t ' But oh ! whatever be thy Godhead great, 

Fix not in regions too remote thy seat ; 

Nor deign thou near the frozen bear to shine, 

Nor where the sultry southern stars decline. 

Press not too much on any part the sphere, 

Hard were the task thy weight divine to bear ; 

Soon would the axis feel th' unusual load, 

And, groaning, bend beneath th' incumbent God ; 

O'er the mid orb more equal shalt thou rise, 

fcnd witfi-a juster balance fit the skies. llowr 



££CT. XVI. j PERSONIFICATION, 15J 

the same import, and more allied to our own language, it will be better 
to use this word. 

It is a figure, the use of which is very extensive, and its foundation laid 
deep in human nature. At first view, and when considered abstractly, it 
would appear to be a figure of the utmost boldness, and to border on the 
extravagant and ridiculous. For what can seem more remote from the 
track of reasonable thought, than to speak of stones and trees, and fields 
and rivers, as if they were living creatures, and to attribute to them 
thought and sensation, affections and actions ? One might imagine this 
to be no more than childish conceit, which no person of taste could relish. 
In fact, however, the case is very different. No such ridiculous effect is 
produced by personification, when properly employed ; on the contrary, 
it is found to be natural and agreeable, nor is any very uncommon degree 
of passion required, in order to make us relish it. All poetry, even in 
its most gentle and humble forms, abounds with it. From prose, it is far 
from being excluded ; nay, in common conversation, very frequent ap- 
proaches are made to it. When we say, the ground thirsts for rain, or 
the earth smiles with plenty ; when we speak of ambition's being restless^ 
or a disease being deceitful, such expressions show the facility with which 
the mind can accommodate the properties of living creatures to things 
that are inanimate, or to abstract conceptions of its own forming. 

Indeed, it is very remarkable, that there is a wonderful proneness in 
human nature to animate all objects. Whether this arises from a sort of 
assimilating principle, from a propension to spread a resemblance of our- 
selves over all other things, or from whatever other cause it arises, so it is, 
that almost every emotion, which in the least agitates the mind, bestows 
upon its object a momentary idea of life. Let a man, by an unwary step, 
sprain his ankle, or hurt his foot upon a stone, and, in the ruffled discom- 
posed moment, he will, sometimes, feel himself disposed to break the 
stone in pieces, or to utter passionate expressions against it, as if it had 
done him an injury. If one has been long accustomed to a certain set of 
objects, which have made a strong impression on his imagination ; as to a 
house where he has passed many agreeable years ; or to fields, and trees, 
and mountains, among which he has often walked with the greatest de- 
light ; when he is obliged to part with them, especially if he has no pros- 
pect of ever seeing them again, he can scarce avoid having somewhat of 
the same feeling as when he is leaving old friends. They seem endowed 
with life. They become objects of his affection ; and in the moment of 
his parting, it scarce seems absurd to him to give vent to his feeling in 
words, and to take a formal adieu. 

So strong is that impression of life which is made upon us, by the more 
magnificent and striking objects of nature especially, that I doubt not, in 
the least, of this having been one cause of the multiplication of divinities 
in the heathen world. The belief of Dryads and Naiads, of the genius of 
the wood, and the god of the river, among men of lively imaginations, in the 
early ages of the world, easily arose from this turn of mind. When their 
favourite rural objects had often been animated in their fancy, it was an 
easy transition to attribute to them some real divinity, some unseen power 
or genius which inhabited them, or in some peculiar manner belonged to 
them. Imagination was highly gratified, by thus gaining somewhat to 
rest upon with more stability ; and when belief coincided so much with 
imagination, very slight causes would be sufficient to establish it. 

From this deduction, may be easily seen how it comes to pass, that 



156 PERSONIFICATION. [LECT. XVL 

personification makes so great a figure in all compositions, where imagi- 
nation or passion have any concern. On innumerable occasions, it is the 
very language of imagination and passion, and therefore deserves to be 
attended to, and examined with peculiar care. There are three different 
degrees of this figure ; which it is necessary to remark and distinguish, 
in order to determine the propriety of its use. The first is, when some 
of the properties or qualities of living creatures are ascribed to inani- 
mate objects : the second, when those inanimate objects are introduced 
as acting like such as have life ; and the third, when they are represent- 
ed either as speaking to us, or as listening to what we say to them. 

The first and lowest degree of this figure, consists in ascribing to in- 
animate objects some of the qualities of living creatures. Where this 
is done, as is most commonly the case, in a word or two, and by way of 
an epithet added to the object, as, ' a raging storm, a deceitful disease, 
a cruel disaster,' &c. it raises the style so little, that the humblest dis- 
course will admit it without any force. This, indeed, is such an obscure 
degree of personification, that one may doubt whether it deserves the 
name, and might not be classed with simple metaphors, which escape in 
a manner unnoticed. Happily employed, however, it sometimes adds 
beauty and sprightliness to an expression : as in this line of Virgil : 

Aut conjurato descendens Dacus ab Istro. Geor. II. 474. 

Where the personal epithet conjurato, applied to the river Istro, is infi- 
nitely more poetical than if it had been applied to the person, thus : 
Aut conjuratus descendens Dacus ab Istro. 

A very little taste will make any one feel the difference between these 
two lines. 

The next degree of this figure is, when we introduce inanimate objects 
acting like those that have life. Here we rise a step higher, and the 
personification becomes sensible. According to the nature of the action, 
which we attribute to those inanimate objects, and the particularity with 
which we describe it, such is the strength of the figure. When pursued 
to any length, it belongs only to studied harangues, to highly figured and 
eloquent discourse ; when slightly touched, it may be admitted into sub- 
jects of less elevation. Cicero, for instance, speaking of the cases where 
killing another is lawful in self-defence, uses the following words : " Ali- 
quando nobis gladius ad occidendum hominem ab ipsis porrigitur legibus." 
(Orat. pro. Milone.) The expression is happy. The laws are personi- 
fied, as reaching forth their hand to give us a sword for putting one to 
death. Such short personifications as these may be admitted even into 
moral treatises, or works of cool reasoning ; and provided they be easy 
and not strained, and that we be not cloyed with too frequent returns of 
them, they have a good effect on style, and render it both strong and 
lively. 

The genius of our language gives us an advantage in the use of this 
figure. As, with us, no substantive nouns have gender, or are masculine 
and feminine, except the proper names of male and female creatures ; 
by giving a gender to any inanimate object, or abstract idea, that is, in 
place of the pronoun it, using the personal pronouns, he, or she, we 
presently raise the style, and begin personification. In solemn discourse, 
this may often be done to good purpose, when speaking of religion, 
or virtue, or our country, or any such object of dignity. I shall give 
n remarkably fine example, from a sermon of Bishop Sherlock's, where 



I.ECT. XVI.} PERSONIFICATION. 1 57 

we shall see natural religion beautifully personified, and be able to 
judge from it, of the spirit and grace which this figure, when well 
conducted, bestows on a discourse. I must take notice, at the same 
time, that it is an instance of this figure, carried as far as prose, even 
in its highest elevation, will admit, and therefore, suited only to com- 
positions where the great efforts of eloquence are allowed. The au- 
thor is comparing together our Saviour and Mahomet : ' Go.' says he, 
6 to your natural religion ; lay before her Mahomet, and his disciples, ar- 
rayed in armour and blood, riding in trjumph over the spoils of thousands 
Who fell by his victorious sword. Show her the cities which he set on 
flames, the countries which he ravaged and destroyed, and the miserable 
distress of all the inhabitants of (he earth. When she has viewed him 
in this scene, carry her into his retirement ; show her the prophet's 
chamber ; his concubines and his wives ; and let her hear him allege 
revelation, and a divine commission, to justify his adultery, and lust. 
When she is tired with this prospect, then show her the blessed Jesus, 
humble and meek, doing good to all the sons of men. Let her see him 
In his most retired privacies : let her follow him to the mount and hear 
his devotions and supplications to God. Carry her to his table, to view 
his poor fare, and hear his heavenly discourse. Let her attend him to 
the tribunal, and consider the patience with which he endured the scoffs 
and reproaches of his enemies. Lead her to his cross ; let her view 
him in the agony of death, and hear his last prayer for his persecutors : 
Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do! When natural re- 
ligion has thus viewed both, ask her, which is the Prophet of God ? But 
her answer we have already had, when she saw part of this scene 
through the eyes of the centurion who attended at the cross. By him 
she spoke, and said, 'Truly, this man was the Son of God.'' "* This is more 
than elegant ; it is truly sublime. The whole passage is animated ; and 
the figure rises at the conclusion, when natural religion, who, before was 
only a spectator, is introduced as speaking by the centurion's voice. It 
has the better effect too, that it occurs at the conclusion of a discourse 
where we naturally look for most warmth and dignity. Did Bishop Sher- 
lock's sermons, or, indeed any English sermons whatever, afford us 
many passages equal to this, we should oftener have recourse to them 
for instances of the beauty of composition. 

Hitherto we have spoken of prose ; in poetry, personifications of this 
kind are extremely frequent, and are, indeed, the very life and soul of it. 
We expect to find every thing animated in the descriptions of a poet 
who has a lively fancy. Accordingly Homer, the father and prince of 
poets, is remarkable for the use of this figure. War, peace, darts, 
spears, towns, rivers, every thing, in short, is alive in his writings. The 
same is the case with Milton and Shakspeare. No personification, in 
any author, is more striking or introduced on a more proper occasion 
than the following of Milton's on occasion of Eve's eating the forbidden 
fruit : 

So saying, her rash hand, in evil hour 

forth reaching to the fruit, she pluck'd, she ate ; 

Earth felt the wound : and Nature from her seat 

Sighing, through all her works, gave signs of wo, 

That all was lost. ix. 780, 

Bishop Sherlock's Sermons, Vol, I. Disc, ix, 



1 58 PERSONIFICATION . {J,ECT. X\ I 

All the circumstances and ages of men, poverty, riches, youth, old age ? 
all the dispositions and passions, melancholy, love, grief, contentment, 
are capable of being personified in poetry, with great propriety. Of 
this we meet with frequent examples in Milton's Allegro and Penseroso, 
Parnell's Hymn to Contentment, Thompson's Seasons, and all the good 
poets : nor, indeed, is it easy to set any bounds to personifications of 
this kind, in poetry. 

One of the greatest pleasures we receive from poetry, is, to find our- 
selves always in the midst of our fellows ; and to see every thing think- 
ing, feeling, and acting, as we ourselves do. This is, perhaps, the princi- 
pal charm of this sort of figured style, that it introduces us into society 
with all nature, and interests us even in inanimate objects, by forming a 
connexion between them and us, through that sensibility which it ascribes 
to them. This is exemplified in the following beautiful passage of Thomp- 
son's Summer, wherein the life which he bestows upon all nature, when 
describing the effects of the rising sun, renders the scenery uncommonly 
gay and interesting : 

But yonder comes the powerful king of day, 
Rejoicing in the East The lessening cioud ? 
The kindling azure, and the mountain's brow 
Tipt with setherial gold, his near approach 

Betoken glad. 

By tbee refin'd, 

In brisker measures, the relucent stream 
Frisks o'er the mead. The precipice abrupt. 
Projecting horror on the blacken 'd flood, 
Softens at thy return. The desert joys, 
Wildly, through all his melancholy bounds 
Rude ruins glitter ; and the briny deep, 
Seen from some pointed promontory's top, 
Reflects from every fluctuating wave, 
A glance extensive as the day — — 

The same effect is remarkable in that fine passage of Milton i 



-To the nuptial bower, 



I led her blushing like the morn. All heaven 
And happy constellations, On that hour, 
Shed their selectest influence. The earth 
Gave signs of gratulation, and each hill. 
Joyous the birds ; fresh gales and gentle airs 
Whisper'd it to the woods, and from their "wings 
Flung rose, flung odour from the spicy shrub, 
Disporting. — 

The third and highest degree of this figure remains to be mentioned^ 
when inanimate objects are introduced, not only as feeling and acting, 
but as speaking to us, or hearing and listening when we address our- 
selves to them. This, though on several occasions far from being unnatu- 
ral, is, however, more difficult in the execution, than the other kinds of 
personification. For this is plainly the boldest of all rhetorical figures ; 
it is the style of strong passion only ; and, therefore, never to be at- 
tempted, unless when the mind is considerably heated and agitated. A 
slight personification of some inanimate thing, acting as if it had life, can 
be relished by the mind, in the midst of cool description, and when its 
ideas are going on in the ordinary train. But it must be in a state of 
violent emotion, and have departed considerably from its common track of 
thought, before it can so far realize the personification of an insensible 
object, as to conceive it listening to what we say, or making any return to 
*is. All strong passions, however, have a tendency to use this figure ; 






LECT. XVi.j PERSONIFICATION . io& 

not only love, anger, and indignation, but even those which are seem- 
ingly more dispiriting, such as grief, remorse, and melancholy. For all 
passions struggle for vent, and if they can find no other object, will, 
rather than be silent, pour themselves forth to woods, and rocks, and the 
most insensible things ; especially, if these be in any degree connected 
with the causes and objects that have thrown the mind into this agitation,, 
Hence, in poetry, where the greatest liberty is allowed to the language 
of passion, it is easy to produce many beautiful examples of this figureo 
Milton affords us an extremely fine one, in that moving and tender ad- 
dress which Eve makes to Paradise, just before she is compelled to leave it 

Oh ! unexpected stroke, worse than of death ! 

Must I thus leave thee, Paradise ! thus leave 

Thee, native soil, these happy walks, and shades. 

Fit haunt of gods ! where I had hope to spend 

Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day 

Which must be mortal to us both. O flowers ! 

That never will in other climate grow, 

My early visitation and my last 

At ev'n, which I bred up with tender hand, 

From your first op'ning buds, and gave you names I 

Who now shall rear you to the sun, or rank 

Your tribes, and water from th' ambrosial fount ? Book II. I. 268.- 

^Fhis is altogether the language of nature, and of female passion. It is 
observable, that all plaintive passions are peculiarly prone to the use of 
this figure. The complaints which Philoctetes, in Sophocles, pours out 
to the rocks and caves of Lemnos, amidst the excess of his grief and 
despair, are remarkably fine examples of it.* And there are frequent 
examples, not in poetry only, but in real life of persons, when just about 
to suffer death, taking a passionate farewell of the sun, moon, and stars, 
or other sensible objects around them. 

There are two great rules for the management of this sort of personi- 
fication. The first rule is, never to attempt it, unless when prompted by 
strong passion, and never to continue it when the passion begins to flag. 
It is one of those high ornaments which can only find place in the most 
warm and spirited parts of composition ; and there, too, must be em- 
ployed with moderation. 

The second rule is, never to personify any object in this way, but such 
as has some dignity in itself, and can make a proper figure in this eleva 
tion to which we raise it. The observance of this rule is required, even 
in the lower degrees of personification ; but still more, when an address 
is made to the personified object. To address the corpse of a deceased 
friend, is natural ; but to address the clothes which he wore, introduces 
mean and degrading ideas. So also, addressing the several parts of one's 
body, as if they were animated, is not congruous to the dignity of passion, 
For this reason, I must condemn the following passage, in a very beauti- 
ful poem of Mr. Pope's, Eloisa to Abelard. 

TfAtv TOtTi * y*g ctAAov 6iJ ora> xryce. 
''AvcutXitio/AaiTrc/^trt roistiaiQsriV; &c. 

" O mountains, rivers, rocks, and savage herds, 

To you I speak ! to you alone I now 

Must breathe my sorrows ! you are wont to hear 

My sad complaints, and I will tell you all 

That I have sutfer'd from Achilles' son I" Feahkii>: 



160 PERSONIFICATION [LECT. XVI 

Dear fatal name ! rest ever unreveal'd, 
Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd. 
Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, 
Where, mix'd with God's, his lov'd idea lies. 
O write it not my hand ! — his name appears 
Already written : — Blot it out, my tears ! 

Here are several different objects and parts of the body personified ; 
and each of them is addressed or spoken to ; let us consider with what 
propriety. The first is the name of Abelard ; " Dear fatal name ! rest 
ever," &c. To this no reasonable objection can be made. For, as the 
name of a person often stands for the person himself, and suggests the 
same ideas, it can bear this personification with sufficient dignity. Next, 
Eloisa speaks to herself; and personifies her heart for this purpose: 
" Hide it, my heart, within that close," &c. As the heart is a dignified 
part of the human frame, and is often put for the mind or affections, this 
also may pass without blame. But when from her heart she passes to 
her hand, and tells her hand not to write his name, this is forced and un- 
natural ; a personified hand is low, and not in the style of true passion ; 
and the figure becomes still worse, when, in the last place, she exhorts 
her tears to blot out what her hand had written, " Oh ! write it not," &c. 
There is, in these two lines, an air of epigrammatic conceit, which 
native passion never suggests ; and which is altogether unsuitable to the 
tenderness which breathes through the rest of that excellent poem. 

In prose compositions, this figure requires to be used with still greater 
moderation and delicacy. The same liberty is not allowed to the imagi- 
nation there, as in poetry. The same assistances cannot be obtained for 
raising the passion to its proper height by the force of numbers, and the 
glow of style. However, addresses to inanimate objects are not exclu- 
ded from prose ; but have their place only in the higher species of ora- 
tory. A public speaker may on some occasions very properly address 
religion or virtue ; or his native country, or some city or province, which 
has suffered perhaps great calamities, or been the scene of some memo- 
rable action. But we must remember, that as such addresses are among 
the highest efforts of eloquence, they should never be attempted, unless 
by persons of more than ordinary genius. For if the orator fails in his 
design of moving our passions by them, he is sure of being laughed at. 
Of all frigid things, the most frigid are the awkward and unseasonable 
attempts sometimes made towards such kinds of personification, especial- 
ly if they be long-continued. We see the writer or speaker toiling and 
labouring, to express the language of some passion which he neither feels 
himself, nor can make us feel. We .remain not only cold, but frozen ; 
and are at full leisure to criticise on the ridiculous figure which the per- 
sonified object makes, when we ought to have been transported with a 
glow of enthusiasm. Some of the French writers, particularly Bossuet 
and Flechier, in their sermons and funeral orations, have attempted and 
executed this figure, not without warmth and dignity. Their works are 
exceedingly worthy of being consulted, for instances of this, and of se- 
veral other ornaments of style. Indeed, the vivacity and ardour of the 
French genius is more suited to this bold species of oratory, than the 
more correct, but less animated genius of the British, who, in their prose 
works, very rarely attempt any of the high figures of eloquence.* So 
much for personifications, or prosopopoeia, in all its different forms. 

* Inthe "Oraisons Funebres de M. Bossuet," which I consider as one of the master- 
piecesolmoderneloquence, apostrophes and addressestoper»onifiedobjeets frequently 



LCCT. XVI.] APOSTROPHE. 161 

Apostrophe is a figure so much of the same kind, that it will not 
require many words. It is an address to a real person ; but one who is 
either absent or dead, as if he were present, and listening to us. It is so 
much allied to an address to inanimate objects personified, that both these 
figures are sometimes called apostrophes. However, the proper apos- 
trophe is in boldness one degree lower than the address to personified 
objects ; for it certainly requires a less effort of imagination to suppose 
persons present w T ho are dead or absent, than to animate insensible beings, 
and direct our discourse to them. Both figures are subject to the same 
rule of being prompted by passion, in order to render them natural ; for 
both are the language of passion or strong emotions only. Among the 
poets, apostrophe is frequent, as in Virgil : 



-Pereunt Hypanisque Dymasque 



Confixi a sociis ; nee te, tua piurima, Pantheu, 
Labentum pietas, nee Apoilinis insula texit !"* 

The poems of Ossian are full of the most beautiful instances of this 
figure : " Weep on the rocks of roaring winds, O maid of Inistore ! 
Bend thy fair head over the waves, thou fairer than the ghosts of the 
hills when it moves in a sunbeam at noon over the silence of Morven ! 
He is fallen ! Thy youth is low ; pale beneath the sword of Cuthullin !"}" 
Quintilian affords us a very fine example in prose ; when, in the begin- 
ning of his sixth book, deploring the untimely death of his son, which 
had happened during the course of the work, he makes a very moving 
and tender apostrophe to him. " Nam quo ille animo, qua medicorum 
admiratione, mensium octo valitudinem tulit ? ut me in supremis con- 
solatus est? quam etiam jam deficiens, jamque non noster, ipsuni 
ilium alienatse mentes errorem circa solas literas habuit ? Tuosne ergo, 

quently occur, and are supported with much spirit. Thus, for instance, in the funeral 
oration of Mary of Austria, Queen of France, the authoraddresses Algiers, in the pros- 
pect of the advantage which the arms of Louis XIV. were to gain over it : " Avant lui 
la France, presque sans vaisseaux, tenoit en vain aux deux mers. Maintenant, on les 
voit couvertes, depuis le Levant jusqu'aucouchant, de nos flottes victorieuses ; et ia 
hardiesseFrancoise port par toutlaterreur avec le nom de Louis. Tu cederas, tu tom- 
beras sousle vanqueur, Alger ! riche des depouilles da la chretiente. Tu disois en ton 
cceur avare, je tiens le mer sous ma loi, et les nations sont ma proie. La legerete de 
tes vaisseaux te donnoit de la confiance. Mais tu te verras attaque dans tes murailles, 
comme un oisseau ravissant, qu'on iroit chercher parmi ses rochers, et dans son nid, 
ou il partage son butin a ses petits. Tu rends deja tes esclaves. Louis a brise les fers 
donttuacabloisses sujets, &c." In another passage of the same oration, he thusapos- 
trophizes the Isle of Pheasants, which had been rendered famous by being the scene 
of those conferences, in which the treaty of the Pyrenees between France and Spain, 
and the marriage of this princess with the'king of France, were concluded. " Isle 
pacifique, ouse doivent terminer les differends de deux grands empires ilquitu sers 
de limites ! isle eternellement memorable par les conferences de deux grands minis- 
tres. Auguste journee ou deux fieres nations, long terns enemis, et alors reconciles par 
Marie Therese, s'avancent sur leurs confins, leurs rois a leur tete, non plus pour se 
combattre, mais pour s'embrasser. Fetes sacre, et marriage fortune, voile nuptial 3 
benediction, sacrifice, puis-je meler ajourdhui vos ceremonies, et vos pompes avec 
ces pompes funebres, et le comble des grandeurs avec leurs ruines !" In the funeral 
oration of Henrietta, Queen of England, (which is perhaps the noblest of all his 
compositions) after recounting all she had done to support her unfortunate husband, 
he concludes with this beautiful apostrophe : " O mere ! O femuie ! O reine admi- 
rable, et digne d'une meilleure fortune, si les fortunes de la terre etoient quelqne 
chose i Enfin il faut ceder a votre sort. Vous avez assez soutenu l'etat, qui est 
attaque par une force invincible et divine. II ne reste plus deformans, si non que 
vous teniez ferme parmi ses ruines." 

* Nor Pantheus ! thee, thy mitre, nor the bands 

Of awful Phoebus sav'd from impious hands Dryde.y, 

- Finsal. B. T. 

X 



162 Al'OSTHQrHL\ , [LECT. XW. 

O meae spes inanes ! labentes oculos tuum fugientem spiritum vidi ? 
Tuum corpas frigidum, exangue complexus, animam recipere, auramque 
communem haurire arnplius potui ? Tene, consulari nuper adoptione ad 
omnium spes honorum patris admotum, te, avunculo praetori generum 
tlestinatum ; te, omnium spe Attic ae eloqnentiae candidatum, parens su~ 
perstes tantum ad poenas amisi '"* In this passage Quintilian shows the 
true genius of an orator, as much as he does elsewhere that of the critic. 
For such bold figures of discourse as strong personifications, addresses 
to personified objects, and apostrophes, the glowing imagination of the 
ancient oriental nations was particularly tilted. Hence in the sacred 
Scriptures, we find some very remarkable instances : " O thou sword 
of the Lord ! how long will it be ere thou he quiet ? put thyself up into 
the scabbard, rest and be still i How can it be quiet, seeing the Lord 
hath given it a charge against Ashkelon, and against the sea-shore ? 
there he hath appointed it."t There is one passage in particular, 
which 1 must not omit to mention, because it contains a greater assem- 
blage of sublime ideas, of bold and daring figures, than is perhaps any 
where to be met with. It is in the fourteenth chapter of Isaiah, where 
the prophet thus describes the fall of the Assyrian empire : " Thou 
shalt take up this proverb against the king of Babylon, and say, How 
hath the oppressor ceased ! the golden city ceased ! The Lord hath 
broken the staff of the wicked, and the sceptre of the rulers. He who 
smote the people in wrath with a continual stroke : he that ruled the 
nations in anger, is persecuted, and none hindereth. The whole earth 
is at rest, and is quiet ; they break forth into singing. Yea, the fir- 
trees rejoice at thee, and the cedars of Lebanon, saying, Since thou art 
laid down, no feller is come up against us. Hell from beneath is moved 
for thee to meet thee at thy coming ; it stirreth up the dead for thee ? 
even all the chief ones of the earth : it hath raised up from their 
thrones all the kings of the nations. All they shall speak, and say unto 
thee, Art thou also become weak as we ? art thou become like unto us ? 
Thy «pomp is brought down to the grave, and the noise of thy viols ; the 
worm is spread under thee, and the worms cover thee. How art thou 
fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning ! how art thou cut 
down to the ground, which didst weaken the nations ! For thou hast said 
in thine heart, I will ascend into heaven, I will exalt my throne above 
the stars of God : I will sit also upon the mount of the congregation, 
in the sides of the north. I will ascend above the heights of the clouds, 
I will be like the Most High. Yet thou shalt be brought down to 
hell, to the sides of the pit. They that see thee shall narrowly 
look upon thee, and consider thee, saying, Is this the man which made the 
earth to tremble, that did shake kingdoms ? that made the world as a 

* "With what spirit, and how much to the admiration of the physicians did he 
bear throughout eight months his lingering distress ! With what tender attention 
did he study, even in the last extremity, to comfort me ! And when no longer him- 
self, how affecting was it to behold the disordered efforts of his wandering mind, 
wholly employed on subjects of literature? Ah! my frustrated and fallenhopes I 
Have I then beheld your closing eyes, and heard the last groan issue from your lips. 
After having embraced your cold and breathless body, how was it in my power t'q 
draw the vital air or continue to drag a miserable life. When I had just beheld you 
raised by consular adoption to the prospect of all your father's honours, destined to 
be son iii-law to your uncle the Praetor, pointed out by general expectation as the suc- 
cessful candidate for the prize of Attic eloquence, in this moment of your opening 
honours must I lose you for ever, &nd remain an unhappy parent, surviving only to* 
suffer wo. 

t Jer. xlvii. 6; 7. 



LECT, XVII.] COMPARISON. yfe 

wilderness, and destroyed the cities thereof; that opened not. the house 
of his prisoners ? All the kings of the nations, even all of them lie in 
glory, every one in his own house. But thou art cast out of thy grave, 
like an abominable branch : and as the raiment of those that are slain, 
thrust through with a sword, that go down to the stones of the pit, as a 
carcass trodden under feet." This whole passage is full of sublimity. 
Every object is animated ; a variety of personages are introduced ; we 
hear the Jews, the fir-trees, and cedars of Lebanon, the ghosts of depart- 
ed kings, the king of Babylon himself, and those who look upon his body ,. 
all speaking in their order, and acting their different parts without confu- 
sion. 



LECTURE XVIL 



COMPARISON, ANTITHESIS, INTERROGATION, EXCLAMATION, AN1> 
OTHER FIGURES OF SPEECH. 

We are still engaged in the consideration of figures of speech ; which, 
'as they add much to the beauty of style when properly employed, and 
are, at the same time, liable to be greatly abused, require a careful dis- 
cussion. As it would be tedious to dwell on all the variety of figurative 
expressions which rhetoricians have enumerated, I chose to select the 
capital figures, such as occur most frequently, and to make my remarks 
on these ; the principles and rules laid down concerning them, will suffi- 
ciently direct us to the use of the rest, either in prose or poetry. Of 
metaphor, which is the most common of them all, I treated fully ; and in 
the last lecture I discoursed of hyperbole, personification, and apostro- 
phe. This lecture will nearly finish what remains on the head of figures. 

Comparison, or simile, is what I am to treat of first ; a figure frequent- 
ly employed both by poets and prose writers, for the ornament of com- 
position. In a former lecture, I explained fully the difference betwixt 
this and metaphor. A metaphor is a comparison implied, but not express- 
ed as such • as when I say, " Achilles is a lion," meaning, that he re- 
sembles one in courage or strength. A comparison is, when the resem- 
blance between two objects is expressed in form, and generally pursued 
more fully than the nature of a metaphor admits ; as when I say, " the 
actions of princes are like those great rivers, the course of which every 
one beholds, but their springs have been seen by few." This slight in- 
stance will show, that a happy comparison is a kind of sparkling ornament, 
which adds not a little lustre and beauty to discourse ; and hence such 
figures are termed by Cicero, " Orationis lumina." 

The pleasure we take in comparisons is just and natural. We may re- 
mark three different sources whence it arises. First, from the pleasure 
which nature has annexed to that act of the mind by which we compare 
any two objects together, trace resemblances among those that are dif- 
ferent, and differences among those that resemble each other ; a plea- 
sure, the final cause of which is, to prompt us to remark and observe, 
and thereby to make us advance in useful knowledge. This operation 
of the mind is naturally and universally agreeable ; as appears from the 



164 COMPARISON. [LECT. XVII. 

delight which even children have in comparing things together, as soon 
as they are capable of attending to the objects that surround them. Se- 
condly, the pleasure of comparison arises from the illustration which the 
simile employed gives to the principal object : from the clearer view of 
it which it presents : or the more strong impression of it which it stamps 
upon the mind : and thirdly, it arises from the introduction of a new, 
and commonly a splendid object, associated to the principal one of which 
we treat ; and from the agreeable picture which that object presents to 
the fancy ; new scenes being thereby brought into view, which, without 
the assistance of this figure, we could not have enjoyed. 

All comparisons whatever may be reduced under two heads, explaining 
and embellishing comparisons. For when a writer likens the object of 
which he treats to any other thing, it always is, or at least always should 
be, with a view either to make us understand that object more distinctly, 
or to dress it up, and adorn it. All manner of subjects admit of explain- 
ing comparisons. Let an author be reasoning ever so strictly, or treating 
the most abstruse point in philosophy, he may very properly introduce 
a comparison, merely with a view to make his subject better understood. 
Of this nature, is the following in Mr. Harris's Hermes, employed to ex- 
plain a very abstract point, the distinction between the powers of sense 
and imagination in the human mind. " As wax," says he, " would not be 
adequate to the purpose of signature, if it had not the power to retain 
as well as to receive the impression ; the same holds of the soul, with ' 
respect to sense and imagination. Sense is its receptive power ; imagi- 
nation its retentive. Had it sense without imagination, it would not be 
as wax, but as water, where though all impressions be instantly made, 
yet as soon as they are made, they are instantly lost." In comparisons 
of this nature, the understanding is concerned much more than the fan- 
cy ; and therefore the only rules to be observed, with respect to them, 
are, that they be clear, and that they be useful ; that they tend to ren- 
der our conception of the principal object more distinct : and that they 
do not lead our view aside, and bewilder it with any false light. 

But embellishing comparisons, introduced not so much with a view to 
inform and instruct, as to adorn the subject of which we treat, are, those 
with which we are chiefly concerned at present, as figures of speech : 
and those, indeed, which most frequently occur. Resemblance, as I be- 
fore mentioned, is the foundation of this figure. We must not, however, 
take resemblance, in too strict a sense, for actual similitude or likeness of 
appearance. Two objects may sometimes be very happily compared to 
one another, though they resemble each other, strictly speaking, in no- 
thing ; only, because they agree in the effects which they produce upon 
the mind ; because they raise a train of similar, or what may be called, 
concordant ideas ; so that the remembrance of the one, when recalled^ 
serves to strengthen the impression made by the other. For example, 
to describe the nature of soft and melancholy music, Ossian says, " The 
music of Carryl was, like the memory of joys that are past, pleasant and 
mournful to the soul." This is happy and delicate. Yet, surely, no kind 
of music has any resemblance to a feeling of the mind, such as the me- 
mory of past joys. Had itbeen compared to the voice of the nightingale, 
or the murmur of the stream, as it would have been by some ordinary 
poet, the likeness would have been more strict ; but, by founding his 
simile upon the effect which Carryl's music produced, the poet, while he 
conveys a very tender image, gives us.at the same time, a much stronger 



LECT. XVII.j C0Mi J AR|S0N. jtfj 

impression of the nature and strain of that music : "Like the memory of 
joys that are past, pleasant and mournful to the soul." 

In general, whether comparisons be founded on the similitude of the 
two objects compared, or on some analogy and agreement in their effects, 
the fundamental requisite of a comparison is, that it shall serve to illus- 
trate the object, for the sake of which it is introduced, and to give us a 
stronger conception of it. Some little excursions of fancy may be per- 
mitted, in pursuing the simile ; but they must never deviate far from the 
principal object. If it be a great and noble one, every circumstance in 
the comparison must tend to aggrandize it ; if it be a beautiful one, to 
render it more amiable ; if terrible, to fill us with more awe. But to be 
a little more particular : The rules to be given concerning comparisons 
respect chiefly two articles ; the propriety of their introduction, and the 
nature of the objects whence they are taken. First, the propriety of 
their introduction. From what has already been said of comparisons, it 
appears, that they are not, like the figures of which I treated in the last 
lecture, the language of strong passion. No ; they are the language of 
imagination rather than of passion ; of an imagination sprightly indeed, 
and warmed ; but undisturbed by any violent or agitating emotion . Strong 
passion is too severe to admit this play of fancy. It has no leisure to cast 
about for resembling objects ; it dwells on that object which has seized 
and taken possession of the soul. It is too much occupied and filled by 
it, to turn its view aside, or to fix its attention on any other thing. An 
author, therefore, can scarcely commit a greater fault, than in the midst 
of passion to introduce a simile. Metaphorical expression may be allow- 
able in such a situation ; though even this may be carried too far ; but 
the pomp and solemnity of a formal comparison is altogether a stranger to 
passion. It changes the key in a moment; relaxes and brings down the 
mind ; and shows us a writer perfectly at his ease, while he is personating 
some other, who is supposed to be under the torment of agitation. Our 
writers of tragedies are very apt to err here. In some of Mr. Rowe's 
plays, these flowers of similes have been strewed unseasonably. Mr. 
Addison's Cato, too, is justly censurable in this respect ; as when Portius, 
just after Lucia had bid him farewell forever, and when he should natu- 
rally have been represented as in the most violent anguish, makes his 
reply in a studied and affected comparison : 

Thus o'er the dying lamp th' unsteady flame 
Hangs quiv'ring on a point, leaps off by fits, 
And falls again, as loth to quit its hold. 
Thou must not go ; my soul still hovers o'er thee, 
And can't get loose. 

Every one must be sensible, that this is quite remote from the language 
of nature on such occasions. 

However, as comparison is not the style of strong passion, so neither, 
when employed for embellishment, is it the language of a mind wholly 
unmoved. It is a figure of dignity, and always requires some elevation 
in the subject, in order to make it proper : for it supposes the imagination 
to be uncommonly enlivened, though the heart be not agitated by passion. 
In a word, the proper place of comparisons lies in the middle region 
between the highly pathetic, and the very humble style. This is a wide 
field, and gives ample range to the figure. But even this field we must 
take care not to overstock with it. For, as we before said, it is a spark - 
ling ornament ; and all things that sparkle, dazzle and fatigue, if thev 



166 - COMPARISON. [LECT.XVH. 

recur too often. Similes should, even in poetry, be used with modera- 
tion ; but in prose writings, much more ; otherwise the st}4e will become 
disagreeably florid, and the ornament lose its virtue and effect. 

I proceed, next, to the rules that relate to objects whence comparisons 
should be drawn ; supposing them introduced in their proper place. 

In the first place, they must not be drawn from things which have too 
near and obvious a resemblance to the object with which we. compare 
them. The great pleasure of the act of comparing lies in discovering 
likenesses among things of different species, where we would not, at the 
first glance, expect a resemblance. There is little art or ingenuity in 
pointing out the resemblance of two objects, that are so much akin, or 
lie so near to one another in nature, that every one sees they must be 
alike. When Milton compares Satan's appearance, after his fall, to that 
of the sun suffering an eclipse, and affrighting the nations with portentous 
darkness, we are struck with the happiness and the dignity of the simili- 
tude. But when he compares Eve's bower in'Paradise, to the arbour of 
Pomona ; or Eve herself, to a driad, or wood-nymph, we receive little 
entertainment ; as every one sees that one arbour must, of course, in 
several respects, resemble another arbour, and one beautiful woman 
another beautiful woman. 

Among similes, faulty through too great obviousness of the likeness,, 
we must likewise rank those which are taken from objects become trite 
and familiar in poetical language. Such are the similes of a hero to a 
lion, of a person in sorrow to a flower drooping its head, of violent pas- 
sion to a tempest, of chastity to snow, of virtue to the sun or the stars, 
and many more of this kind, with which we are sure to find modern 
writers, of second rate genius, abounding plentifully; handed down 
from every writer of verses to another, as by hereditary right. These 
comparisons were, at first, perhaps, very proper for the purposes to^ 
which they are applied. In the ancient original poets, who took them 
directly from nature, not from their predecessors, they had beauty. But 
they are now beaten ; our ears are so accustomed to them, that they give 
no amusement to the fancy. There is, indeed, no mark by which we 
can more readily distinguish a poet of true genius, from one of a barren 
imagination, than by the strain of their comparisons. All who call them- 
selves poets, affect them : but, whereas a mere versifier copies no new 
image from nature, which appears, to his uninventive genius, exhausted 
by those who have gone before him, and, therefore, contents himself 
with humbly following their track ; to an author of real fancy, nature 
seems to unlock, spontaneously, her hidden stores ; and the eye, *' quick 
glancing from earth to heaven," discovers new shapes and forms, new 
likenesses between objects unobserved before, which render his similes- 
original, expressive, and livery. 

But in the second place, as comparisons ought not to be founded on 
likenesses too obvious, still less ought they to be founded on those which 
are too faint and remote. For these, in place of assisting, strain the 
fancy to comprehend them, and throw no light upon the subject. It is 
also to be observed, that a comparison, which, in the principal circum- 
stances, carries a sufficiently near resemblance, may become unnatural 
;md obscure, if pushed too far. Nothing is more opposite to the design 
of this figure, than to hunt after a great number of coincidences in minute 
points, merely to show how far the poet's wit can stretch the resem- 
blance. This is Mr; C 6wley's common fault j whose comparisons gene- 



IECT. XVII.] ANTITHESIS. J 6? 

rally run out so far, as to become rather a studied exercise of wit, than 
an illustration of the principal object. We need only open his works, 
his odes especially, to find instances every where. 

In the third place, the object from which a comparison is drawn, should 
I never be an unknown object, or one which few people can form clear 
I ideas : " Ad inferendam rebus lucem," says Quintilian, " repertas sunt 
similitudinis. Praecipue, igitur, est custodiendum ne id quodsimilitudinis 
gratia ascivimus, aut obscurum sit, aut ignotum. Debet enim id quod 
illustrandae alterius rei gratia assumitur, ipsum esse clarius eo quod 
illuminator.' '* Comparisons, therefore, founded on philosophical dis- 
coveries, or on any thing with which persons of a certain trade only, or 
a certain profession, are conversant, attain not their proper effect. 
They should be taken from those illustrious noted objects, which most 
of the readers either have seen, or can strongly conceive. This leads 
me to remark a fault of which modern poets are very apt to be guilty. 
The ancients took their similes from that face of nature, and that clasi* 
of objects, with which they and their readers were acquainted. Hence 
lions, and wolves, and serpents were fruitful, and very proper sources of 
similes, among them ; and these having become a sort of consecrated, 
classical images, are very commonly adopted by the moderns ; injudi- 
ciously, however, for the propriety of them is now in a great measure 
lost. It is only at secondhand, and by description, that we are acquainted 
with many of those objects ; and, to most readers of poetry, it were more 
to the purpose, to describe lions or serpents, by similes taken from men, 
than to describe men by lions. Nowadaj^s, we can more easily form 
the conception of a fierce combat between two men, than between a 
bull and a tiger. Every country has a scenery peculiar to itself, and 
the imagery of every good poet will exhibit it. The introduction of 
unknown objects, or of a foreign scenery, betrays a poet copying, not 
after nature, but from other writers. I have only to observe further, 

In the fourth place, that, in compositions of a serious or elevated 
kind, similes should never be taken from low or mean objects. These 
are degrading : whereas, similes are commonly intended to embellish, 
and to dignify : and therefore, unless in burlesque writings, or where 
similes are introduced purposely to vilify and diminish an object, mean 
ideas should never be presented to us. Some of Homer's comparisons 
have been taxed, without reason, on this account. For it is to be re- 
membered, that the meanness or dignity of objects, depends, in a great 
degree, on the ideas and manners of the age wherein we live. Many 
similes, therefore, drawn from the incidents of rural life, which appear 
low to us, had abundance of dignity in those simpler ages of antiquity. 

I have now considered such of the figures of speech as seemed most 
to merit a full and particular discussion ; metaphor, hyperbole, personi- 
fication, apostrophe, and comparison. A few more yet remain to be 
mentioned ; the proper use and conduct of which will be easily under- 
stood from the principles already laid down. 

As comparison is founded on the resemblance, so antithesis on the con- 
trast or opposition of two objects. Contrast has always this effect, to 

*" Comparisons have been introduced into discourse, for the sake of throwing 
light on the subject. We must therefore, be much on our guard, not to employ, 
as the ground of our simile any object which is either obscure or unknown. That, 
surely, which is used for the purpose of illustrating some other thing, ought to be 
-more obvious and plain, than the thing intended to be illustrated." 



16a ANTITHESIS. [LECT. XVII. 

make each of the contrasted objects appear in the stronger light. White, 
for instance, never appears so bright, as when it is opposed to black ; and 
when both are viewed together. Antithesis, therefore, may, on man} r 
occasions, be employed to advantage, in order to strengthen the impres- 
sion which we intend that any object should make. Thus Cicero in his 
oration for Milo, representing the improbability of Milo's forming a de- 
sign to take away the life of Clodius, at a time when all circumstances 
were unfavourable to such a design, and after he had let other opportu- 
nities slip when he could have executed the same design, if he had formed 
it, with much more ease and safet}^ heightens our conviction of this im- 
probability by a skilful use of this figure : " Quern igitur cum omnium 
gratia interfice re noluit, hunc voluit cum ali quorum querela ? Quern jure, 
quern loco, quern tempore, quern impune, non est ausus, hunc injuria, 
iniquo loco, alieno tempore, periculo capitis, non dubitavit occidere ?* 
In order to render an antithesis more complete, it is always of advantage, 
that the words and members of the sentence, expressing the contrasted 
objects, be, as in this instance of Cicero's, similarly constructed, and made 
to correspond to each other. This leads us to remark the contrast more ,. 
by setting the things which we oppose more clearly over against each 
other : in the same manner as when we contrast a black and a white ob- 
ject, in order to perceive the full difference of their colour, we would 
choose to have both objects of the same bulk, and placed in the same light. 
Their resemblance to each other, in certain circumstances, makes their 
disagreement in others more palpable. 

At the same time, I must observe, that the frequent use of antithesis, 
especially where the opposition in the words is nice and quaint, is apt to 
render style disagreeable. Such a sentence as the following, from Seneca, 
does very well, where it stands alone : " Si quem volueris essedivitem, 
non est quod augeas divitias, sed minuas cupiditates."| Or this : " Si ad 
naturam vives, nunquameris pauper ; si adopinionem, nunquamdives."J 
A maxim, or moral saying, properly enough receives this form ; both be- 
cause it is supp osed to be the fruit of meditation, and because it is de- 
signed to be engraven on the memory, which recalls it more easily by the 
help of such contrasted expressions. But where a string of such senten- 
ces succeed each other : where this becomes an author's favourite and 
prevailing manner of expressing himself, his style is faulty ; and it is upon 
this account Seneca has been often, and justly, censured. Such a style ap- 
pears too studied and laboured : it gives us the impression of an author 
attending more to his manner of saying things, than to the things them- 
selves which he says. Dr. Young, though a writer of real genius, was too 
fond of antithesis. In his estimate of Human Life, we find whole pas- 
sages that run in such a strain as this : " The peasant complains aloud ; 
the courtier in secret repines. In want, what distress ? in affluence, what 
satiety ? The great are under as much difficulty to expend with pleasure, 

* " Is it credible that, when he declined putting Clodius to death with the con- 
sent of all, he would choose to do it with the disapprobation of many ? Can you 
believe that the person whom he scrupled to slay, when he might have done so 
with full justice, in a convenient place, at a proper time, with secure impunity, 
be made no scruple to murder against justice in an unfavourable place, at an 
unseasonable time, and at the risk of capital condemnation ?" 

t " If you seek to make one rich, study not to increase his stores, but to diminish 
his desires." 

t "If you regulate your desires according to the standard of nature, you will 
never be poor ; if according to the standard of opinion, you will never be rich. 



LECT. XVI!.] INTERROGATION AND EXCLAMATION - . I0y 

as the means to labour with success. The ignorant, through ill-grounded 
hope, are disappointed ; the knowing, through knowledge, despond. 
Ignorance occasions mistake ; mistake disappointment ; and disappoint- 
ment is misery. Knowledge, on the other hand, gives true judgment ; 
and true judgment of human things, gives a demonstration of their insuf- 
ficiency to our peace." There is too much glitter in such a style as this, 
to please long. We are fatigued, by attending to such quaint and artificial 

r sentences often repeated. 
There is another sort of antithesis, the beauty of which consists in 
surprising us by the unexpected contrast of things which it brings toge- 
ther. Much wit may be shown in this : but it belongs wholly to pieces 
of professed wit and humour, and can find no place in grave compositions. 
Mr. Pope, who is remarkably fond of antithesis, is often happy in this 
use of the figure. So, in his Rape of the Lock : 

Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law, 

Or some frail china jar receive a flaw ; 

Or stain her honour or her new brocade ; 

Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade ; 

Or lose her heart or necklace at a ball, 

Or whether heav'n has doom'd that Shock must fall. 

What is called the point of an epigram, consists, for most part, in some 
antithesis of this kind ; surprising us with the smart and unexpected turn 
which it gives to thought : and in the fewer words it is brought out, it is 
always the happier. 

Comparisons and antithesis are figures of a cool nature ; the produc- 
tions of imagination, not of passion. Interrogations and exclamations, 
of which I am next to speak, are passionate figures. They are, indeed, 
on so many occasions, the native language of passion, that their use is 
extremely frequent; and in ordinary conversation, when men are heated, 
they prevail as much as in the most sublime oratory. The unfigured 
literal use of interrogation, is to ask a question ; but when men are 
prompted by passion, whatever they would affirm, or deny with great 
vehemence, they naturally put in the form of a question ; expressing 
thereby the strongest confidence of the truth of their own sentiment, 
and appealing to their hearers for the impossibility of the contrary. Thus 
in Scripture : " God is not a man that he should lie, neither the son of 
man, that he should repent. Hath he said it? and shall he not do it ? 
Hath he spoken it ? and shall he not make it good ?"* So Demosthenes, 
addressing himself to the Athenians ; " Tell me, will you still go about 
and ask one another, what news ? What can be more astonishing news 
than this, that the man of Macedon makes war upon the Athenians, and 
disposes of the affairs of Greece ? Is Philip dead ? No, but he is sick. 
What signifies it to you whether he be dead or alive ? For, if any thing 
happens to this Philip, you will immediately raise up another." All this, 
delivered without interrogation, had been faint and ineffectual ; but the 
warmth and eagerness which this questioning method expresses, awakens 
the hearers, and strikes them with much greater force. 

Interrogations may often be employed with propriety, in the course of 
no higher emotions than naturally arise in pursuing some close and earnest 

I reasoning. But exclamations belong only to stronger emotions of the 
mind ; to surprise, admiration, anger, joy, grief, and the like - 
* Numbers, chap, xxiii. v. 19. 



/1 7 (j EXCLAMATION. LECT. XtlL 

Heu pietas ! heu prisca fides ! invictaque bello 
Dextra ! 

Both interrogation and exclamation, and indeed, all passionate figures of 
speech, operate upon us by means of sympathy. Sympathy is a very pow- 
erful and extensive principle in our nature, disposing us to enter into 
every feeling and passion, which we behold expressed by others. Hence, 
a single person coming into company with strong marks, either of melan- 
choly or joy, upon his countenance, will diffuse that passion, in a moment, 
through the whole circle. Hence, in a great crowd, passions are so 
easily caught, and so fast spread, by that powerful contagion which the 
animated looks, cries, and gestures, of a multitude never fail to carry. 
Now, interrogations and exclamations, being natural signs of a moved and 
agitated mind, always, when they are properly used, dispose us to sympa- 
thize with the dispositions of those who use them, and to feel as they feeL 
From this it follows, that the great rule with regard to the conduct of 
such figures is, that the writer attend to the manner in which nature dic- 
tates to us to express any emotion or passion, and that he give his language 
that turn, and no other ; above all, that he never affect the style of a 
passion which he does not feel. With interrogations he may use a good 
deal of freedom ; these, as above observed, falling in so much with the 
ordinary course of language and reasoning, even when no great vehe- 
mence is supposed to have place in the mind. But, with respect to 
exclamations, he must be more reserved. Nothing has a worse effect than 
the frequent and unseasonable use of them. Raw, juvenile writers ima- 
gine, that, by pouring them forth often, they render their compositions 
warm and animated. Whereas quite the contrary follows. They render 
it frigid to excess. When an author is always calling upon us to enter 
into transports which he has said nothing to inspire, we are both dis- 
gusted and enraged at him. He raises no sympathy ; for he gives us 
no passion of his own in which we can take part. He gives us words, 
and not passion ; and of course, can raise no passion, unless that of in- 
dignation. Hence, I am inclined to think, he was not much mistaken, 
who said, that when, on looking into a book, he found the pages thick 
bespangled with the point which is called " Punctum Admirationis," he 
judged this to be a sufficient reason for his laying it aside. And, indeed, 
were it not for the help of this "punctum admirationis," with which 
many writers of the rapturous kind so much abound, one would be often 
at a loss to discover, whether or not it was exclamation which they 
aimed at. For, it has now become a fashion, among these writers, to 
subjoin points of admiration to sentences, which contain nothing but 
simple affirmations, or propositions ; as if, by an affected method of point- 
ing, they could transform them in the reader's mind into high figures of 
eloquence. Much akin to this, is another contrivance practised by some 
writers, of separating almost all the members of their sentences from 
each other, by blank lines ; as if, by setting them thus asunder, they 
bestowed some special importance upon them ; and required us, in 
going along, to make a pause at every other word, and weigh it well. 
This, I think, may be called a typographical figure of speech. Neither, 
indeed, since we have been led to mention the arts of writers for in- 
creasing the importance of their words, does another custom, which 
prevailed very much some time ago, seem worthy of imitation ; I mean 
that of distinguishing the significant words, in every sentence, by italic 
characters. On some occasions, it is very proper to use such dis* 



LECT. XVII.] CLIMAX j;* 

tinctions : but when we carry them so far, as to mark with them every 
supposed emphatical word, these words are apt to multiply so fast in the 
author's imagination, that every page is crowded with italics ; which can 
produce no effect whatever, but to hurt the eye, and create confusion. 
Indeed, if the sense point not out the most emphatical expressions, a vari- 
ation in the type, especially when occurring so frequently, will give 
small aid. And, accordingly, the most masterly writers, of late, have 
with good reason laid aside all those feeble props of signiiicancy, and 
trusted wholly to the weight of their sentiments for commanding atten- 
tion. But to return from this digression. 

Another figure of speech, proper only to animated and warm com- 
position, is what some critical writers call vision ; when, in place of 
relating something that is past, we use the present tense, and describe 
it as actually passing before our eyes. Thus Cicero, in his fourth ora*- 
tion against Catiline. "Videor enim mihi hanc urbem videre, lucem 
orbis terrarum atque arcem omnium gentium, subito uno incendio con- 
cidentem ; cerno animo sepulta in patria miseros atque insepultos acer- 
vos civium ; versatur mihi ante oculos aspectus Cethegi, et furor, in 
vestra caede bacchantis."* This manner of description supposes a sort 
of enthusiasm, which carries the person who describes it in some mea 
sure out of himself; and when well executed, must needs impress the 
reader or hearer strongly, by the force of that sympathy which I have 
before explained. But, in order to a successful execution, it requires 
an uncommonly warm imagination, and such a happy selection of cir- 
cumstances, as shall make us think we see before our eyes the scene 
that is described. Otherwise, it shares the same fate with all feeble 
attempts towards passionate figures ; that of throwing ridicule upon the 
author, and leaving the reader more cool and uninterested than he was 
before. The same observations are to be applied to Repetition, Sus- 
pension, Correction, and many more of those figurative forms of speech, 
which rhetoricians have enumerated among the beauties of eloquence. 
They are beautiful, or not, exactly in proportion as they are native ex- 
pressions of the sentiment or passion intended to be heightened by them. 
Let nature and passion always speak their own language, and they will 
suggest figures in abundance. But when we seek to counterfeit a warmth 
which we do not feel, no figures will either supply the defect, or conceal 
the imposture. 

There is one figure (and I shall mention no more) of frequent use 
among all public speakers, particularly at the bar, which Quintilian insists 
upon considerably, and calls amplification. It consists in an artful exag- 
geration of all the circumstances of some object or action which we want 
to place in a strong light, either a good or a bad one. It is not so pro- 
perly one figure, as the skilful management of several which we make 
to tend to one point. It may be carried on by a proper use of magnify- 
ing or extenuating terms, by a regular enumeration of particulars, or by 
throwing together, as into one mass, a crowd of circumstances ; by sug- 
gesting comparisons also with things of a like nature. But the principal 
instrument by which it works, is by a climax, or gradual rise of one cir- 
cumstance above another, till our idea be raised to the utmost. I spoke 

* "I seem to myself to behold this city, the ornament of the earth, and the capital 
of all nations, suddenly involved in one conflagration. 1 see before me the slaugh- 
tered heaps of citizens lying unburied in the midst of their ruined country. The 
furious countenance of Cethegus rises to my view, while with a savage joy ha i 
triumphing in your miseries." 



j[72 FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE [LECT. XV'lJf, 

formerly of a climax in sound ; a climax in sense, when well carried on, 
is a figure which never fails to amplify strongly. The common example 
of this, is that noted passage in Cicero which every schoolboy knows ; 
"Facinus est vincere civem Romanum ; scelus verberare, prope parri- 
cidium, necare ; quid dicam in crucem tollere ?"* I shall give an instance 
from a printed pleading of a famous Scotch lawyer, Sir George M'Ken- 
zie. It is in a charge to the jury, in the case of a woman accused of 
murdering her own child. " Gentlemen, if one man had any how slain 
another, if an adversary had killed his opposer, or a woman occasioned 
the death of her enemy, even these criminals would have been capitally 
punished by the Cornelian law : but, if this guiltless infant, who could 
make no enemy, had been murdered by its own nurse, what punishments 
would not then the mother have demanded ? With what cries and excla- 
mations would she have stunned your ears ? JVhat shall we say then, 
when a woman, guilty of homicide, a mother, of the murder of her in- 
nocent child, hath comprised all those misdeeds in one single crime ; a 
crime, in its own nature detestable ; in a woman, prodigious ; in a mother,, 
incredible ; and perpetrated against one whose age called for compassion, 
whose near relation claimed affection, and whose innocence deserved the 
highest favour." I must take notice, however, that such regular cli- 
maxes as these, though they have considerable beauty, have, at the same 
time, no small appearance of art and study ; and, therefore, though they 
may be admitted into formal harangues, yet they speak not the language 
of great earnestness and passion, which seldom proceed by steps so regu- 
lar. Nor, indeed, for the purposes of effectual persuasion, are they 
likely to be so successful, as an arrangement of circumstances in a less 
artificial order. For, when much art appears, we are always put on our 
guard against the deceits of eloquence ; but when a speaker has reasoned 
strongly, and, by force of argument, has made good his main point, he 
may then, taking advantage of the favourable bent of our minds, make 
use of such artificial figures to confirm our belief, and to warm our mino's. 



LECTURE XVIII, 



FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE— GENERAL CHARACTERS OF STYLE- 
DIFFUSE, CONCISE, FEEBLE, NERVOUS— DRY, 
PLAIN, NEAT, ELEGANT, FLOWERY. 

Having treated, at considerable length, of the figures of speech, of 
their origin, of their nature, and of the management of such of them as 
are important enough to require a particular discussion, before finally 
dismissing this subject, I think it incumbent on me to make some obser- 
vations concerning the proper use of figurative language in general. 
These, indeed, I have, in part, already anticipated. But as great errors 
are often committed in this part of style, especially by young writers, it 

* " It is a crime to put a Roman citizen in bonds : it is the height of guilt to scourge 
hrm : little less than parricide to put him to death. What name then shall I give 

to erucifvins; him ?" ' 



LECT. XVIII.] FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. n;> 

may be of use that I bring together, under one view, the most material 
directions on this head. 

I begin with repeating an observation, formerly made, that neither all 
the beauties, nor even the chief beauties of composition, depend upon 
tropes and figures. Some of the most sublime and most pathetic passages 
of the most admired authors, both in prose and poetry, are expressed 
in the most simple style, without any figure at all ; instances of which I 
have before given. On the other hand, a composition may abound with 
these studied ornaments ; the language maybe artful, splendid, and highly 
figured, and yet the composition be on the whole frigid and unaffect- 
ing. Not to speak of sentiment and thought, which constitute the real 
and lasting merit of any work, if the style be stiff and affected, if it be 
deficient in perspicuity or precision, or in ease and neatness, all the 
figures that can be employed will never render it agreeable : they may 
dazzle a vulgar, but will never please a judicious eye. 
In the second place, figures, in order to be beautiful, must always rise 
naturally from the subject. I have shown that all of them are the lan- 
guage either of imagination, or of passion ; some of them suggested by 
imagination, when it is awakened and sprightly, such as metaphors and 
comparisons ; others by passion or more heated emotion, such as per- 
sonifications and apostrophes. Of course, they are beautiful then only, 
when they are prompted by fancy or by passion. They must rise of 
their own accord : they must flow from a mind warmed by the object 
which it seeks to describe ; we should never interrupt the course of 
thought to cast about for figures. If they be sought after coolly, and 
fastened on as designed ornaments, they will have a miserable effect. 
It is a very erroneous idea, which many have of the ornaments of style, 
as if they were things detached from the subject, and that could be stuck 
to it, like lace upon a coat : this is indeed, 

Purpureus late qui splendeat unus aut alter 

Assuitur pannus* Ars Poet. 

And it is this false idea which has often brought attention to the beau- 
ties of writing into disrepute. Whereas, the real and proper ornaments 
of style arise from sentiment. They flow in the same stream with the 
current of thought. A writer of genius conceives his subject strongly ; 
his imagination is filled and impressed with it ; and pours itself forth in 
that figurative language which imagination naturally speaks. He puts 
on no emotion which his subject does not raise in him ; he speaks as he 
feels ; but his style will be beautiful, because his feelings are lively. 
On occasions, when fancy is languid, or finds nothing to rouse it, we 
should never attempt to hunt for figures. We then work, as it is said, 
" invita Minerva;" supposing figures invented, they will have the ap- 
pearance of being forced ; and in this case, they had much better be 
omitted. 

In the third place, even when imagination prompts, and the subject 
naturally gives rise to figures, they must, however, not be employed too 
frequently. In all beauty, " simplex munditiis" is a capital quality. No- 
thing derogates more from the weight and dignity of any composition, 
than too great attention to ornament. When the ornaments cost labour, 
that labour always appears ; though they should cost us none, still the 
reader or hearer may be surfeited with them ; and when they come too 

* " Shreds of purple with broad lustre shine, 

Sew'd on your poem." Francis. 



1 74 FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE. [LECT. XVIII, 

thick, they give the impression of a light and frothy genius, that evapo- 
rates in show, rather than brings forth what is solid. The directions of 
the ancient critics, on this head, are full of good sense, and deserve care- 
ful attention. " Voluptatibus maximis," says Cicero, de Orat. 1. hi. 
" fastidium finitimum est in rebus omnibus, quo hoc minus in oratione 
miremur. In qua vel ex poetis, vel oratoribus possumus judicare, con- 
cinnam, ornatam, festivam sine intermissione, quamvis claris sit colori- 
bus picta, vel poesis, vel oratio, non posse in delectatione esse diuturna. 
Quare, bene et praeclare, quamvis nobis saepe dicatur, belle et festive 
nimium saepe nolo.'^* To the same purpose are the excellent directions 
with which Quintilian concludes his discourse concerning figures, 1. ix. c. 
3. " Ego illud de iis figuris quae verae fiunt, adjiciam breviter, sicut 
ornant orationem opportune positae, ita ineptissimas esse cum immodice 
petuntur. Sunt, qui neglecto rerum pondere et viribus sententiarum, 
si vel ioania verba in hos modos depravarunt, summos se judicant arti- 
fices : ideoque non desinunt eas nectere ; quas sine sententia sectare 8 
tarn est ridiculum quam quasrere habitum gestumque sine corpore. Ne 
hae quidem quae rectae fiunt, densandae sunt nimis. Sciendum imprimis 
quid quisque postulet locus, quid persona, quid tempus. Major enim 
pars harum figurarum posita est in delectatione. Ubi vero, atrocitate, 
invidia, miseratione pugnandum est ; quis ferat verbis contrapositis, et 
consimilibus, et pariter cadentibus, irascentem, flentem, rogantem? Cum 
in his rebus, cura verborum deroget affectibus fidem ; et ubicunque ars 
ostentatur, Veritas abesse videatur."f After these judicious and useful 
observations, I have no more to add, on this subject, exceptthis admonition: 
In the fourth place, that, without a genius for figurative language, 
none should attempt it. Imagination is a power not to be acquired ; it 
must be derived from nature. Its redundancies we may prune, its devi- 
ations we may correct, its sphere we may enlarge ; but the faculty itself 
we cannot create ; and all efforts towards a metaphorical ornamented 
style, if we are destitute of the proper genius for it, will prove awkward 
and disgusting. Let us satisfy ourselves, however, by considering, that 
without this talent, or at least with a very small measure of it, we may 
both write and speak to advantage. Good sense, clear ideas, perspi- 
cuity of language, and proper arrangement of words and thoughts, will 

* " In all human things, disgust borders so nearly on the most lively pleasures, 
that we need not be surprised to find this hold in eloquence. From reading either 
poets or orators we may easily satisfy ourselves, that neither a poem nor anoration^ 
which, without intermission, is showy and sparkling, can please us long. Where* 
fore, though we may wish for the frequent praise of having expressed ourselves well 
and properly, we should not covet repeated applause, for being bright and splendid. 

t " 1 must add. concerning those figures which are proper iu themselves, that, as 
they beautify a composition when they are seasonably introduced, so they deform 
it greatly, if too frequently sought after. There are some who, neglecting strength 
of sentiment and weight of matter, if they can only force their empty words into a 
figurative style, imagine themselves great writers ; and therefore continually string 
together such ornaments; which is just as ridiculous, where there is no sentiment 
to support them, as to contrive gestures and dresses for what wants a body. Even 
those figures which a subject admits, must not come too thick. We must begin 
with considering what the occasion, the time, and the person who speaks, render 
proper. For the object aimed at by the greater part of these figures is entertain- 
ment. But when the subject becomes deeply serious and strong passions are to be 
moved, who can hear the orator, who in affecting language and balanced phrases, 
endeavours to express wrath, commiseration, or earnest entreaty ? On all such 
occasions, a solicitous attention to words weakens passion ; and when so much art 
is shown, there is suspected to be little sincerity." 



LECT. XvHL] GENERAL CHARACTERS OF STYLE, 175 

always command attention. These are, indeed, the foundations of all 
solid, merit, both in speaking and writing. Many subjects require no- 
thing more ; and those which admit of ornament, admit it only as a secon- 
dary requisite. To study and to know our own genius well ; to follow 
nature; to* seek to improve, but not to force it, are directions which 
cannot r be \i$$ often given to those who desire to excel in the liberal 
arts. 

When I entered on the consideration of style, I observed that words 
being the copied of our ideas, there must always be a very intimate 
connexion between the manner in which every writer employs words, 
and his manner of thinking ; and that, from the peculiarity of thought 
and expression which belongs to him, there is a certain character imprint- 
ed on his style, which maybe denominated his manner; commonly ex- 
pressed by such general terms, as strong, weak, dry, simple, affected, 
or the like. These distinctions carry, in general, some reference to an 
author's manner of thinking, but refer chiefly to his mode of expression. 
They arise from the whole tenor of his language ; and comprehend the 
effect produced by all those parts of style which we have already con- 
sidered ; the choice which he makes of single words ; his arrangement 
of these in sentences ; the degree of his precision ; and his embellish- 
ment, by means of musical cadence, figures, or other arts of speech, 
Of such general characters of style, therefore, it remains now to speak, 
as the result of those underparts of which I have hitherto treated. 

That different subjects require to be treated of in different sorts of 
style, is a position so obvious, that I shall not stay to illustrate it, 
Every one sees that treatises of philosophy, for instance, ought not to 
be composed in the same style with orations. Every one sees also, 
that different parts of the same composition require a variation in the 
style and manner. In a sermon, for instance, or any harangue, the 
application or peroration admits more ornament and requires more 
warmth, than the didactic part. But what I mean at present to remark 
is, that amidst this variety, we still expect to find, in the compositions 
of any one man, some degree of uniformity or consistency with himself 
in manner ; we expect to find some predominant character of style 
impressed on all his writings, which shall be suited to, and shall mark 
his particular genius and turn of mind. The orations in Livy differ 
much in style, as they ought to do, from the rest of his history. The 
same is the case with those in Tacitus. Yet both in Livy's orations, 
and in those of Tacitus, we are able clearly to trace the distinguishing 
manner of each historian ; the magnificent fulness of the one, and the 
sententious conciseness of the other. The"Lettres Persanes," and 
" L'Esprit des Loix," are the works of the same author. They requi- 
red very different composition surely, and accordingly they differ 
widely ; yet still we see the same hand. Wherever there is real and 
native genius, it gives a determination to one kind of style rather than 
another. Where nothing of this appears : where there is no marked 
nor peculiar character in the compositions of any author, we are apt to 
infer, not without reason, that he is a vulgar and trivial author, who 
writes from imitation, and not from the impulse of original genius. As 
the most celebrated painters are known by their hand, so the best and 
most original writers are known and distinguished, throughout all their 
works, by their style and peculiar manner. This will be found to hold 
almost without exception. 



170 CONCISE AND [LECT. XVIII, 

The ancient critics attended to these general characters of style 
which we are now to consider. Dionysius of Halicarnassus divides them 
into three kinds ; and calls them the austere, the florid, and the middle. 
By the austere, he means a style distinguished for strength and firmness, 
with a neglect of smoothness and ornament ; for examples of which, he 
gives Pindar and iEschylus among the poets, and Thucydides among the 
prose writers. By the florid, he means, as the name indicates, a style 
ornamented, flowing, and sweet ; resting more upon numbers and grace, 
than strength ; he instances Hesiod, Sappho, Anacreon, Euripides, and 
principally Isocrates. The middle kind is the just mean between these, 
and comprehends the beauties of both ; in which class he places Homer 
and Sophocles among the poets ; in prose, Herodotus, Demosthenes, Pla- 
to, and (what seems strange) Aristotle. This must be a very wide class, 
indeed, which comprehends Plato and Aristotle under one article as to 
style.* Cicero and Qjiintilian make also a threefold division of style, 
though with respect to different qualities of it ; in which they are fol- 
lowed by most of the modern writers on rhetoric ; the simplex, tenue, or 
subtile ; the grave or vehemens ; and the medium, or temperatum genus 
dicendi. But these divisions, and the illustrations they give of them, 
are so loose and general, that they cannot advance us much in our ideas 
of style. I shall endeavour to be a little more particular in what I have 
to say on this subject. 

One of the first and most obvious distinctions of the different kinds of 
style, is what arises from an author's spreading out his thoughts more or 
less. This distinction forms, what are called the diffuse and the con- 
cise styles. A concise writer compresses his thoughts into the fewest 
possible words ; he seeks to employ none but such as are most expres- 
sive ; he lops off as redundant, every expression which does not add 
something material to the sense. Ornament he does not reject ; he 
may be lively and figured ; but his ornament is intended for the sake 
of force, rather than grace. He never gives you the same thought 
twice. He places it in the light which appears to him the most striking ; 
but if you do not apprehend it well in that Hght, you need not expect 
to find it in any other. His sentences are arranged with compactness 
and strength, rather than with cadence and harmony. The utmost pre- 
cision is studied in them ; and they are commonly designed to suggest 
more to the reader's imagination than they directly express. 

A diffuse writer unfolds his thoughts fully. He places it in a variety 
of lights, and gives the reader every possible assistance for understand- 
ino- it completely. He is not very careful to express it at first in its 
full strength ; because he is to repeat the impression ; and what he 
wants in strength, he proposes to supply by copiousness. Writers of 
this character generally love magnificence and amplification. Their 
periods naturally run out into some length, and having room for orna- 
ment of every kind, they admit it freely. 

Each of these manners has its peculiar advantages ; and each becomes 
faulty when carried to the extreme. The extreme of conciseness be- 
comes abrupt and obscure ; it is apt also to lead into a style too pointed, 
and bordering on the epigrammatic. The extreme of diffuseness becomes 
weak and languid, and tires the reader. However, to one or other of 
these two manners, a writer may lean according as his genius prompts 

* De Compositions Verborum. cap. 25. 



LECtVXVIIL] DIFFUSE STYLE. 177 

him ; and under the general character of a concise, or of a more open 
and diffuse style, may possess much beauty in his composition. 

For illustrations of these general characters, I can only refer to the 
writers who are examples of them. It is not so much from detached 
passages, such as I was wont formerly to quote for instances, as from 
the current of an author's style, that we are to collect the idea of a formed 
manner of writing. The two most remarkable examples that I know, 
of conciseness carried as far as propriety will allow, perhaps in some cases 
farther, are Tacitus the historian, and the President Montesquieu in 
J ' L'Esprit de Loix." Aristotle too holds an eminent rank among didactic 
writers for his brevity. Perhaps no writer in the world was ever so 
frugal of his words as Aristotle ; but this frugality of expression fre- 
quently darkens his meaning. Of a beautiful and magnificent diffuse- 
ness, Cicero is, beyond doubt, the most illustrious instance that can be 
given. Addison also, and Sir William Temple, come in some degree 
under this class. 

In judging when it is proper to lean to the concise, and when to the 
diffuse manner, we must be directed by the nature of the composition. 
Discourses that are to' be spoken, require a more copious style, than 
books that are to be read. When the whole meaning must be catched 
from the mouth of the speaker, without the advantage which books 
afford of pausing at pleasure, and reviewing what appears obscure, great 
conciseness is always to be avoided. We should never presume too much 
on the quickness of our hearer's understanding ; but our style ought to 
be such, that the bulk of men can go along with us easily, and without 
effort. A flowing copious style, therefore, is required in all public 
speakers ; guarding, at the same time, against such a degree of diffusion, 
as renders them languid and tiresome ; which will always prove the case, 
when they inculcate too much, and present the same thought under too 
many different views. 

In written compositions, a certain degree of conciseness possesses 
great advantages. It is more lively ; keeps up attention ; makes a brisker 
and stronger impression ; and gratifies the mind by supplying more 
exercise to a reader's own thought. A sentiment which, expressed 
diffusely, will barely be admitted to be just, expressed concisely, will be 
admired as spirited. Description, when we want to have it vivid and 
animated, should be in a concise strain. This is different from the com- 
mon opinion ; most persons being ready to suppose, that upon descrip- 
tion a writer may dwell more safely than upon other things, and that by 
a full and extended style, it is rendered more rich and expressive. I 
apprehend, on the contrary, that a diffuse manner generally weakens it. 
Any redundant words or circumstances encumber the fancy, and make 
the object we present to it, appear confused and indistinct. Accordingly, 
the most masterly describers, Homer, Tacitus, Milton, are almost always 
concise in their descriptions. They show us more of an object at one 
glance, than a feeble diffuse writer can show, by turning it round and 
round in a variety of lights. The strength and vivacity of cfiscription , 
whether in prose or poetry, depend much more upon the happy choice 
of one or two striking circumstances, than upon the multiplication of them. 

Addresses to the passions, likewise, ought to be in the concise, rather 
than the diffuse manner. In these it is dangerous to be diffuse, because 
it is very difficult to support proper warmth for any length of time,, 
When we become prolix, we are always in hazard of cooling the reader. 

Z 



178 NERVOUS AND FEEBLE' STYLE. 

The heart, too, and the fancy run fast ; and if once we can put them in 
motion, they supply many particulars to greater advantage than an au- 
thor can display them. The case is different, when we address ourselves 
to the understanding ; as in all matters of reasoning, explication, and 
instruction. There I would prefer a more free and diffuse manner. 
When you are to strike the fancy, or to move the heart, be concise ; when 
you are to inform the understanding, which moves more slowly, and 
requires the assistance of a guide, it is betterto be full. Historical narra- 
tion may be beautiful, either in a concise or a diffuse manner, according to 
the writer's genius. Livy and Herodotus are diffuse ; Thucydides and 
Sallust are succinct ; yet all of them are agreeable. 

I observed that a diffuse style inclines most to long periods ; and a con- 
cise writer, it is certain, will often employ short sentences. It is not, 
however, to be inferred from this, that long or short sentences are fully 
, characteristical of the one or the other manner. It is very possible for 
one to compose always in short sentences, and to be withal extremely 
diffuse, if a small measure of sentiment be spread through many of these 
sentences. Seneca is a remarkable example. By the shortness and 
quaintness of his sentences, he may appear at first view very concise ; 
yet he is far from being so. He transfigures the same thought into many 
different forms. He makes it pass for a new one, only by giving it a new 
turn. So also, most of the French writers compose in short sentences ; 
though their style, in general, is not concise ; commonly less so than the 
bulk of English writers, whose sentences are much longer. A French 
author breaks down into two or three sentences, that portion of thought 
which an English author crowds into one. The direct effect of short 
sentences, is to render the style brisk and lively, but not always concise. 
By the qnick successive impulses which they make on the mind,' they 
keep it awake : and give to composition more of a spirited character. 
Long periods, like Lord Clarendon's, are grave and stately ; but like all 
grave things, they are in hazard of becoming dull. An intermixture of 
both long and short ones is requisite, when we would support solemnity, 
together with vivacity ; leaning more to the one or the other, according 
as propriety requires that the solemn or the sprightly should be pre- 
dominant in our composition. But of long and short sentences, I had 
occasion formerly to treat, under the head of the construction of periods. 

The nervous and the feeble, are generally held to be characters of 
style, of the same import with the concise and the diffuse. They do 
indeed very often coincide. Diffuse writers have, for the most part, 
some degree of feebleness ; and nervous writers will generally be in- 
clined to a concise expression. This, however, does not always hold ; 
and there are instances of writers, who in the midst of a full and ample 
style, have maintained a great degree of strength. Livy is an example ; 
and in the English language Dr. Barrow. Barrow's style has many 
faults. It is unequal, incorrect, and redundant ; but withal, for force 
and expressiveness, uncommonly distinguished. On every subject, he 
multiplies words with an overflowing copiousness ; but it is always a 
torrent of strong ideas and significant expressions which he pours forth. 
Indeed, the foundations of a nervous or a weak style are laid in an 
author's manner of thinking. If he conceives an object strongly, he will 
express it with energy ; but if he has only an indistinct view of his 
subject : if his ideas be loose and wavering ; if his genius be such, or, 
at the time of his ^writing, so carelessly exerted, that he has no firm 



LECT. XVIII.] NERVOUS AND FEEBLE STYLE. v . i79 

hold of the conception which he would communicate to us ; the marks 
of all this will clearly appear in his style. Several unmeaning words 
and loose epithets will be found : his expressions will be vague and gene- 
ral ; his arrangement indistinct and feeble ; we shall conceive somewhat 
of his meaning, but our conception will be faint. Whereas, a nervous 
writer, whether he employs an extended or a concise style, gives us 
always a strong impression of his meaning : his mind is full of his subject, 
and his words are all expressive ; every phrase and every figure which 
he uses, tends to render the picture, which he would set before us, more 
lively and complete. 

I observed, under the head of diffuse and concise style, that an author 
might lean either to the one or to the other, and yet be beautiful. 
This is not the case with respect to the nervous and the feeble. Every 
author, in every composition, ought to study to express himself with 
some strength, and, in proportion as he approaches to the feeble, he 
becomes a bad writer. In all kinds of writing, however, the same degree 
of strength is not demanded. But the more grave and weighty any 
composition is, the more should a character of strength predominate in 
the style. Hence in history, philosophy, and solemn discourses, it is 
expected most. One of the most complete models of a nervous style- 
is Demosthenes in his orations. 

As every good quality in style has an extreme, when pursued, to 
which it becomes faulty, this holds to the nervous style as well as others. 
Too great a study of strength, to the neglect of the other qualities of 
style, is found to betray writers into a harsh manner. Harshness arises 
from unusual words, from forced inversions in the construction of a sen- 
tence, and too much neglect of smoothness and ease. This is reckoned 
the fault of some of our earliest classics in the English language ; such 
as Sir Walter Raleigh, Sir Francis Bacon, Hooker, Chiilingworth, Milton 
in his prose works, Harrington, Cudworth, and other writers of con- 
siderable note in the days of Queen Elizabeth, James I. and Charles I. 
These writers had nerves and strength in a high degree, and are to this 
day eminent for that quality in style. But the language in their hands 
was exceedingly different from what it is now, and was indeed entirely 
formed upon the idiom and construction of the Latin in the arrangement 
of sentences. Hooker, for instance, begins the preface to his celebrated 
work of Ecclesiastical Polity, with the following sentence : " Though 
for no other cause, yet for this, that posterity may know we have not 
loosely, through silence, permitted things to pass away as in a dream, 
there shall be, for men's information, extant this much, concerning the 
present state of the church of God established among us, and their 
careful endeavours which would have upheld the same." Such a 
sentence now sounds harsh in our ears. Yet some advantages certainly 
attended this sort of style ; and whether we have gained *or lost, upon 
the whole, by departing from it, may bear a question. By the freedom 
of arrangement, which it permitted, it rendered the language susceptible 
of more strength, of more variety of collocation, and more harmony of 
period. But however this be, such a style is now obsolete ; and no 
modern writer could adopt it without the censure of harshness and affec- 
tation. The present form which the language has assumed, has, in 
some measure, sacrificed the study of strength to that of perspicuity and 
ease. Our arrangement of words has become less forcible, perhaps, 



180 DRY AND PLA1N STYLE. jLEC'T.XVIIL 

but more plain and natural : and this is now understood to be the genius 
of our language. 

The restoration of Charles II. seems to be the era of the foundation 
of our present style. Lord Clarendon was one of the first who laid 
aside those frequent inversions which prevailed among writers of the 
former age. After him, Sir William Temple polished the language still 
more. But the author who, by the number and reputation of his works, 
formed it more than any one, into its present state, is Dryden. Dryden 
began to write at the restoration, and continued long an author both in 
poetry and prose. He had made the language his study ; and though 
he wrote hastily, and often incorrectly, and his style is not free from 
faults, yet there is a richness in his diction, a copiousness, ease, and 
variety in his expression, which has not been surpassed by any who 
have come after him.* Since his time, considerable attention has been 
paid to purity and elegance of style : but it is elegance, rather than 
strength, that forms the distinguishing quality of most of the good English 
writers. Some of them compose in a more manly and nervous manner 
than others ; but, whether it be from the genius of our language, or 
from whatever other cause, it appears to me, that we are far from the 
strength of several of the Greek and Roman authors. 

Hitherto we have considered st}de under those characters that respect 
its expressiveness of an author's meaning. Let us now proceed to con- 
sider it in another view, with respect to the degree of ornament employed 
to beautify it. Here, the style of different authors seems to rise, in the 
following gradation ; a dry, a plain, a neat, an elegant, a flowery manner. 
Of each of these in their order : 

First, a dry manner. This excludes all ornament of every kind. 
Content with being understood, it has not the least aim to please either 
the fancy or the ear. This is tolerable only in pure didactic writing ; 
and even there, to make us bear it, great weight and solidity of matter 
are requisite ; and entire perspicuity of language. Aristotle is the 
complete example of a dry style. Never, perhaps, was there any author 
who adhered so rigidly to the strictness of a didactic manner, through- 
out all his writings, and conveyed so much instruction without the least 
approach to ornament. With the most profound genius, and extensive 
views, he writes like a pure intelligence, who addresses himself solely 
to the understanding, without making any use of the channel of the 
imagination. But this is a manner which deserves not to be imitated. 
For, although the goodness of the matter may compensate the dryness 
or harshness of the style, yet is that dryness a considerable defect : as 
it fatigues attention, and conveys our sentiments with disadvantage to the 
reader or hearer. 

A plain style rises one degree above a dry one. A writer g( this 
character employs very little ornament of any kind, and rests almost 
entirely upon his sense. But, if he is at no pains to engage us by the 

* Dr. Johnson, in his Life of Dryden, gives the following character of his prose 
style : " His prefaces have not the formality of a settled style, in which the first 
half of the sentence betrays the other. The clauses are never balanced, nor the 
periods modelled ; every word seems to drop by chance, though it falls into its 
proper place. Nothing is cold or languid ; the whole is airy, animated, and vigo- 
rous ; what is little, is gay, what is great, splendid. Though all is easy, nothing is 
feeble; though all seems careless, there isnothing harsh; and though, since hisearlier 
works m^ve than a century has passed, they have nothing yet uncouth or obsolete." 



LECT. XVIII.] NEAT STYLE, 181 

employment of figures, musical arrangement, or any other art of wri- 
ting, he studies, however, to avoid disgusting us like a dry and a harsh 
writer. Besides perspicuity, he pursues propriety, purity, and preci- 
sion, in his language ; which forms one degree, and no inconsiderable 
one, of beauty. Liveliness, too, and force, may be consistent with a 
very plain style ; and therefore, such an author, if his sentiments be 
good, may be abundantly agreeable. The difference between a dry 
and a plain writer is, that the former is incapable of ornament, and 
seems not to know what it is ; the latter seeks not after it. He gives us 
his meaning in good language, distinct and pure ; any further ornament, 
he gives himself no trouble about ; either, because he thinks it unneces- 
sary to his subject ; or, because his genius does not lead him to delight 
in it ; or, because it leads him to despise it.* 

This last was the case with Dean Swift, who may be placed at the head 
of those that have employed the plain style. Few writers have disco- 
vered more capacity. He treats every subject*which he handles, whether 
serious or ludicrous, in a masterly manner. He knew, almost beyond 
any man, the purity, the extent, the precision of the English language ; 
and, therefore, to such as wish to attain a pure and correct style, he is 
one of the most useful models. But we must not look for much orna- 
ment and grace in his language. His haughty and morose genius made 
him despise any embellishment of this kind as beneath his dignity. He 
delivers his sentiments in a plain, downright, positive manner, like one 
who is sure he is in the right ; and is very indifferent whether you be 
pleased or not. His sentences are commonly negligently arranged ; 
distinctly enough as to the sense ; but without any regard to smoothness 
of sound ; often without much regard to compactness, or elegance. If a 
metaphor, or any other figure, chanced to render his satire more poig- 
nant, he would, perhaps, vouchsafe to adopt it, when it came in his way ; 
but if it tended only to embellish and illustrate, he would rather throw 
itaside. Hence, in his serious pieces, his style often borders upon the 
dry and unpleasing ; in his humorous ones, the plainness of his manner 
gives his wit a singular edge, and sets it off to the highest advantage. 
There is no froth, nor affectation in it ; it flows without any studied 
preparation ; and while he hardly appears to smile himself, he makes 
his reader laugh heartily. To a writer of such a genius as Dean Swift, 
the plain style was most admirably fitted. Among our philosophical 
writers, Mr. Locke comes under this class ; perspicuous ana pure, but 
almost without any ornament whatever. In works which admit, or re- 
quire, ever so much ornament, there are parts where the plain manner 
ought to predominate. But we must remember, that when this is the 
character which a writer affects throughout his whole composition, great 
weight of matter, and great force of sentiment, are required, in order to 
keep up the reader's attention, and prevent him from becoming tired of 
the author. 

What is called a neat style comes next in order ; and here we are 
got into the region of ornament : but that ornament not of the highest 
or most sparkling kind. A writer of this character shows, that he does 

* On this head, of the general characters of style, particularly the plain and the 
simple, and the characters of those English authors who are classed under them, in 
this and the following lecture, several ideas have beon taken from a manuscript 
treatise on rhetoric, part of which was shown to me, many years ago, by the 
learned and ingenious author. Or. Adam Smith ; and which, it is hoped, will be 
given by him to the public. 



i8 2 ELEGANT AND FLORID STYLE. [LECT. XVIIL 

not despise the beauty of language. It is an object of his attention. 
Butjhis attention is shown in the choice of words, and in a graceful col- 
location of them, rather than in any high efforts of imagination, or elo- 
quence. His sentences are always clean, and free from the encum- 
brance of superfluous words ; of a moderate length ; rather inclining 
to brevity, than a swelling structure ; closing with propriety ; without 
any tails, or adjections dragging after the proper close. His cadence is 
varied; but not of the studied musical kind. His figures, if he uses 
any, are short and correct, rather than bold and glowing. Such a style 
as this may be attained by a writer who has no great powers of fancy 
or genius ; by industry merely, and careful attention to the rules of 
writing ; and it is a style always agreeable. It imprints a character of 
moderate elevation on our composition, and carries a decent degree of 
ornament, which is not unsuitable to any subject whatever. A familiar 
letter, or a law paper, on the driest subject, may be written with neat- 
ness ; and a sermon, or a philosophical treatise, in a neat stj'le, will be 
read with pleasure. 

An elegant style is a character, expressing a higher degree of ornament 
than a neat one : and, indeed, is the term usually applied to style, when 
possessing all the virtues of ornament, without any of its excesses or de- 
fects. From what has been formerly delivered, it will easily be under- 
stood, that complete elegance implies great perspicuity and propriety ; 
purity in the choice of words, and care and dexterity in their harmonious 
and happy arrangement. It implies, farther, the grace and beauty of 
imagination spread over style, as far as the subject admits it ; and all the 
illustration which figurative language adds, when properly employed. In 
a word, an elegant writer is one who pleases the fancy and the ear, while 
he informs the understanding ; and who gives us his ideas clothed with 
all the beauty of expression, but not overcharged with any of its misplaced 
finery. In this class, therefore, we place only the first-rate writers 
in the language ; such as Addison, Dryden, Pope, Temple, Bolingbroke, 
Atterbury, and a few more : writers who differ widely from one another 
in many of the attributes of style, but whom we now class together, un- 
der the denomination of elegant, as, in the scale of ornament, possessing 
nearly the same place. 

When the ornaments, applied to style, are too rich and gaudy in pro- 
portion to the subject ; when they return upon us too fast, and strike us 
either with a dazzling lustre, or a false brilliancy, this forms what is call- 
ed a florid style ; a term commonly used to signify the excess of orna- 
ment. In a 3 r oung composer this is very pardonable. Perhaps it is 
even a promising symptom in young people, that their style should in- 
cline to the florid and luxuriant ; " Volo se efferat in adolescente faecun- 
ditas," says Quintilian, " multumindedecoquent anni, multum ratio lima- 
bit. aliquid velut usu ipso deteretur ; sit modo unde excidi possit quid et 
elxscupi. Audeat haec aetas plura, et inveniat et inventis gaudeat ; sint 
licet ilia non satis interim sicca et severa. Facile remedium est uber- 
tatis : sterilia nullo labore vincuntur."* But, although the florid style 

* " In youth, I wish to see luxuriancy of fancy appear. Much of it will be dimi- 
nished by years ; much will be corrected by ripening judgment ; some of it, by the 
mere practice of composition, will be worn away. Let there be only sufficient matter 
at first, that can bear some pruning and lopping off. At this time of life, let genius 
be bold and Inventive, and pride itself in its efforts, though these should not, as yet, 
he correct. Luxuriancv can easily be cured ; but for barrenness there is no remedy."' 



LECT. XIX.j GENERAL CHARACTERS OF STYLE, ' ^3 

may be allowed to youth, in their first essays, it must not receive the 
same indulgence from writers of maturer years. It is to be expected, 
that judgment, as it ripens, should chasten imagination, andreject, as juve- 
nile, all such ornaments as are redundant, unsuitable to the subject, or 
not conducive to illustrate it. Nothing can be more contemptible than 
that tinsel splendour of language, which some writers perpetually affect. 
It were well, if this could be ascribed to the real overflowing of a rich 
imagination. We should then have something to amuse us, at least, if we 
found little to instruct us. But theworst is, thatwith those frothy writers, 
it is a luxuriancy of words, not of fancy. We see a laboured attempt to 
rise to a splendour of composition, of which they have formed to them- 
selves some loose idea ; but having no strength of genius for attaining 
it, they endeavour to supply the defect by poetical words, by cold ex- 
clamations, by commonplace figures, and every thing that has the ap- 
pearance of pomp and magnificence. It has escaped these writers, 
that sobriety in ornament is one great secret for rendering it pleasing ; 
and that without a foundation of good sense and solid thought, the most 
florid style is but a childish imposition on the public. The public, how- 
ever, are but too apt to be so imposed on : at least the mob of readers, 
who are very ready to be caught, at first, with whatever is dazzling and 
gaudy. 

I cannot help thinking, that it reflects more honour on the religious 
turn, and good dispositions of the present age, that on the public taste, 
that Mr. Hervey's Meditations have had so great a currency. The pious 
and benevolent heart, which is always displayed in them, and the lively 
fancy which, on some occasions, appears, justly merited applause: but 
the perpetual glitter of expression, the swoln imagery, and strained de- 
scription which abound in them, are ornaments of a false kind. I would, 
therefore, advise students of oratory to imitate Mr. Hervey's piety rather 
than his style : and, in all compositions of a serious kind, to turn their 
attention, as Mr. Pope says, "from sounds to things, from fancy to the 
heart." Admonitions of this kind, I have already had occasion to give, 
and may hereafter repeat them ; as I conceive nothing more incumbent 
on me in this course of lectures, than to take every opportunity of caution- 
ing my readers against the affected and frivolous use of ornament ; and 
instead of that slight and superficial taste in writing, which I apprehend 
to be at present too fashionable, to introduce, as far as my endeavours 
can avail, a taste for more solid thought, and more manly simplicity in 
style. 



LECTURE XIX. 



GENERAL CHARACTERS OF STYLE— SIMPLE, AFFECTED, 
VEHEMENT— DIRECTIONS FOR FORMING A 
PROPER STYLE. 

Having entered, in the last lecture, on the consideration of the general 
characters of style, I treated of the concise and diffuse, the nervous 
and feeble manner, I consider style also, with relation to the different 



J 84 SIMPLICITY AND [LLCT. XIX 

degrees of ornament employed to beautify it, in which view, the manner 
of different authors rises according to the following gradation; dry, 
plain, neat, elegant, flowery. 

I am next to treat of style under another character, one of great im- 
portance in writing, and which requires to be accurately examined, that 
of simplicity, or a natural style, as distinguished from affectation. Sim- 
plicity, applied to writing, is a term very frequently used ; but, like 
many other critical terms, often used loosely and without precision. — 
This has been owing chiefly to the different meanings given to the word 
simplicity, which, therefore, it will be necessary here to distinguish : 
and to show in what sense it is a proper attribute of style. We may re- 
mark four different acceptations in which it is taken. 

The first is, simplicity of composition, as opposed to too great a 
variety of parts. Horace's precept refers to this : 

Denique sit quod vis simplex duntaxat et unumr 

This is the simplicity of plan in a tragedy, as distinguished from dou- 
ble plots, and crowded incidents ; the simplicity of the Iliad, or iEneid, 
in opposition to the digressions of Lucan, and the scattered tales of 
Ariosto ; the simplicity of Grecian architecture, in opposition to the 
irregular variety of the Gothic. In this sense, simplicity is the same 
with unity. 

The second sense is, simplicity of thought, as opposed to refinement. 
Simple thoughts are what arise naturally ; what the occasion or the sub- 
ject suggests unsought ; and what, when once suggested, are easily ap- 
prehended by all. Refinement in writing, expresses a less natural and 
obvious train of thought, and which it required a peculiar turn of ge- 
nius to pursue ; within certain bounds very beautiful ; but when carried 
too far, approaching to intricacy, and hurting us by the appearance of 
being recherche, or far-sought. Thus, we would naturally say, that Mr. 
Parnell is a poet of far greater simplicity, in his turn of thought, than 
Mr. Cowley : Cicero's thoughts on moral subjects are natural ; Seneca's 
too refined and laboured. In these two senses of simplicity, when it is 
opposed, either to variety of parts, or to refinement of thought, it has 
no proper relation to style. 

There is a third sense of simplicity, in which it has respect to style : 
and stands opposed to too much ornament or pomp of language ; as 
when we say, Mr. Locke is a simple, Mr. Herveya florid writer; and 
it is in this sense, that the " simplex ," the " tenue," or " subtile genus 
dicendi" is understood by Cicero and Quintilian. The simple style, in 
this sense, coincides with the plain or the neat style, which I before 
mentioned ; and, therefore, requires no farther illustration. 

But there is a fourth sense of simplicity, also, respecting style ; but 
not respecting the degree of ornament employed, so much as the easy 
and natural manner in which our language expresses our thoughts . 
This is quite different from the former sense of the word just now men- 
tioned, in which simplicity was equivalent to plainness : whereas, in 
this sense, it is compatible with the highest ornament. Homer, for 
instance, possesses this simplicity in the greatest perfection ; and yet no 
writer has more ornament and beauty, This simplicity, which is what 
we are now to consider, stands opposed, not to ornament, but to affecta- 

* " Then learn the tvand'ring humour to control, 
And keen one equal-tenor through the whole Francis 



■LECT.XIX.] AFFECTATION IN STYLE. 135 

tion of ornament, or appearance of labour about our style ; and it is a 
distinguishing excellency in writing. 

A writer of simplicity expresses himself in such a manner, that 
every one thinks he could have written in the same way ; Horace 
describes it, 



■ut sibi q'uivis 



Speret idem, sudet multum, frustraque laboret 
Ausus idem.* 

There are no marks of art in his expression : it seems the very lan- 
guage of nature ; you see in the style, not the writer and his labour, 
hut the man in his own natural character. He may be rich in his 
expression ; he may be full of figures, and of fancy ; but these flow from 
him without effort ; and he appears to write in this manner, not because 
he has studied it, but because it is the manner of expression most natural 
to him. A certain degree of negligence, also, is not inconsistent 
with this character of style, and even not ungraceful in it ; for too 
minute an attention to words is foreign to it : " Habeat ille," says Cicero, 
(Orat. No. 77) " molle quiddam, et quod indice non ingratam negligen- 
tiam hominis, de re magis quam de verbo laborantis."t This is the 
great advantage of simplicity of style, that, like simplicity of manners, 
it shows us a man's sentiments and turn of mind laid open without dis- 
guise. More studied and artificial manners of writing, however beau- 
tiful, have always this disadvantage, that they exhibit an author in form, 
like a man at court, where the splendour of dress, and the ceremonial of 
behaviour, conceal those peculiarities which distinguish one man from 
another. But reading an author of simplicity, is like conversing with a 
person of distinction at home, and with ease, where we find natural man- 
ners, and a marked character. 

The highest degree of this simplicity, is expressed by a French term, 
to which we have none that fully answers in our language, naivete. It 
is not easy to give a precise idea of the import of this word. It always 
expresses a discovery of character. ' I believe the best account of it is 
given by a French critic, M. Marmontel, who explains it thus : That 
sort of amiable ingenuity, or undisguised openness, which seems to give 
us some degree of superiority over the person who shows it ; a certain 
infantine simplicity, which we love in our hearts, but which displays 
some features of the character that we think we could have art enough 
to hide ; and which, therefore, always leads us to smile at the person who 
discovers this character. La Fontaine, in his Fables, is given as the 
great example of such naivete. This, however, is to be understood, as 
descriptive of a particular species only of simplicity. 

With respect to simplicity in general, we may remark, that the ancient 
Original writers are always the most eminent for it. This happens 
from a plain reason, that they wrote from the dictates of natural genius, 
and were not formed upon the labours and writings of others, which 
is always in hazard of producing affectation. Hence, among the 

* " From well-known tales such fictions would I raise, 
As all might hope to imitate with ease ; 
Yet while they strive the same success to gain, 
Should find their labours, and their hopes in vain." Fjsuncis. 
r " Let this style have certain softness and ease, which shall characterize a neg- 
ligence, not unpleasing in an author, who appears to be more solicitous about the 
thought than the expression.'' 

A a 



i8 6 ' SIMPLICITY AND [LECT.XIX, 

Greek writers, we have more models of a beautiful simplicity than 
among the Roman. Homer, Hesiod, Anacreon, Theocritus, Herodotus, 
and Xenophon, are all distinguished for it. Among the Romans also, we 
have some writers of this character, particularly Terence, Lucretius, 
Phaedrus, and Julius Cassar. The following passage of Terence's Andria, 
is a beautiful instance of simplicity of manner in description. 

Funus interim 
Procedit : sequimur; ad sepulchrum venimus ; 
In ignem imposita est ; fletur. Interea bsec soror. 
Quam dixi,ad flammam accessit imprudentiu s 
Satis cum pericalo. Ibi turn esanimatus Pamphilus, 
Bene dissimulatum amorera, et ceiatum indicat ; 
Occurril praeceps, mulierem ab igne retrahit, 
ilea Glyceriutn, inquit, quid agis f Cur te is perditum ? 
Turn ilia, ut consuetum facile amorem cerneres, 
Rejecit se in eum, flens quam familiariter.* 

All the words here are remarkably happy and elegant ; and convey a 
most lively picture of the scene described ; while, at the same time, the 
style appears wholly artless and unlaboured. Let us, next, consider 
some English writers who come under this class. 

Simplicity is the great beauty of Archbishop Tillotson's manner. 
Tillotson has long been admired as an eloquent writer and a model for 
preaching. But his eloquence, if we can call it such, has often been 
misunderstood. For, if we include, in the idea of eloquence, vehe- 
mence and strength, picturesque description, glowing figures, or correct 
arrangement of sentences, in all these parts of oratory the Archbishop 
is exceedingly deficient. His style is always pure, indeed, and per- 
spicuous, but careless and remiss, too often feeble and languid ; little 
beauty in the construction of his sentences, which are frequently suifer- 
ed to drag unharmoniously ; seldom any attempt towards strength or 
sublimity. But, notwithstanding these defects, such a constant vein of 
good sense and piety runs through his works, such an earnest and serious 
manner, and so much useful instruction conveyed in a style so pure, 
natural, and unaffected, as will justly recommend him to a high regard, 
as long as the English language remains ; not, indeed, as a model of 
the highest eloquence, but as a simple and amiable writer, whose manner 
is strongly expressive of great goodness and worth. I observed before, 
that simplicity of manner may be consistent with some degree of negli- 
gence in style, and it is only the beauty of that simplicity which makes 
the negligence of such writers seem graceful. But, as appears in the 
Archbishop, negligence may sometimes be carried so far as to impair 
the beauty of simplicity, and make it border on a flat and languid man- 
ner. 

:: " Meanwhile the funeral proceeds ; we follow : 
Come to the sepulchre : the body's placed 
Upon the pile ; lamented '; whereupon 
This sister I was speaking of, all wild, 
Ran to the flames with peril of her life. 
There ! there ! the frighted Pamphilius betrays 
His well-dissembled and long-hidden love ; 
Runs up and takes her round the waist, and crie*. 
Oh ! My Glycerium ! what is it you do ? 
Why, why endeavour to destroy yourself? 
Then she, in such a manner, that you thence 
Might easily perceive their long, long love, 
Threw herself back into his arms, and wept. 
Oh! howfamiliarlv.' , Colman. 



LECT. XIX.] AFFECTATION IN STYLE. 187 

Sir William Temple is another remarkable writer in the style of sim- 
plicity. In point of ornament and correctness, he rises a degree above 
Tillotson ; though for correctness, he is not in the highest rank. All is 
easy and flowing in him ; he is exceedingly harmonious ; smoothness, 
and what may be called amenity, are the distinguishing characters of his 
manner ; relaxing, sometimes, as such a manner will naturally do, into 
a prolix and remiss style. No writer whatever has stamped upon his 
style a more lively impression of his own character. In reading his 
works, we seem engaged in conversation with him ; we become thoroughly 
acquainted with him, not merely as an author, but as a man ; and contract 
a friendship for him. He may be classed as standing in the middle, 
between a negligent simplicity, and the highest degree of ornament, which 
this character of style admits. 

Of the latter of these, the highest, most correct, and ornamented 
degree of the simple manner, Mr. Addison is', beyond doubt, in the 
English language, the most perfect example : and therefore, though not 
withoutsome faults, he is, on the whole, the safest model for imitation, 
and the freest from considerable defects, which the language affords, 
Perspicuous and pure he is in the highest degree ; his precision, indeed, 
not very great ; yet nearly as great as the subjects which he treats of 
require : the construction of his sentences easy, agreeable, and commonly 
very musical ; carrying a character of smoothness more than of strength. 
In figurative language, he is rich ; particularly in similes and metaphors : 
which are so employed, as to render his style splendid, without being 
gaudy. There is not the least affectation in his manner ; we see no 
marks of labour ; nothing forced or constrained : buf great elegance 
joined with great ease and simplicity. He is, in particular, distinguished 
by a character of modesty, and of politeness, which appears in all his 
writings. No author has a more popular and insinuating manner ; and 
the great regard which he every where shows for virtue and religion, 
recommends him highly. If he fails in any thing, it is in want of 
strength and precision, which renders his manner, though perfectly 
suited to such essays as he writes in the Spectator, not altogether a proper 
model for any of the higher and more elaborate kinds of composition. 
Though the public have ever done much justice to his merit, yet the 
nature of his merit has not always been seen in its true light ; for, 
though his poetry be elegant, he certainly bears a higher rank among 
the prose writers, than he is entitled to among the poets ; and, in prose, 
his humour is of a much higher, and more original strain than his phi- 
losophy. The Character of Sir Roger de Coverly discovers more genius 
than the critique on Milton. 

Such authors as those, whose characters I have been giving, one is 
never tired of reading. There is nothing in their manner that strains 
or fatigues our thoughts ; we are pleased, without being dazzled by their 
lustre. So powerful is the charm of simplicity, in an author of real 
genius, that it atones for many defects, and reconciles us to many a 
careless expression. Hence, in all the most excellent authors, both in 
prose and verse, the simple and natural manner may be always remark- 
ed ; although other beauties being predominant, this forms not thei. 
peculiar and distinguishing character. Thus Milton is simple in the 
midst of all his grandeur ; and Demosthenes in the midst of all his 
vehemence. To grave and solemn writings, simplicity of manner adds 
the more venerable air. Accordingly, this has often been remarked as 



188 SIMPLICITY IN STYLE. [LECT. XIX. 

the prevailing character throughout all the sacred Scriptures ; and in- 
deed no other character of style was so much suited to the dignity of 
inspiration. 

Of authors, who, notwithstanding many excellencies, have rendered 
their style much less beautiful by want of simplicity, I cannot give a 
more remarkable example than Lord Shaftesbury. This is an author 
on whom I have made observations several times before, and shall now 
take leave of him, with giving his general character under this head. 
Considerable merit, doubtless, he has. His works might be read with 
profit for the moral philosophy which they contain, had he not filled 
them with so many oblique and invidious insinuations against the Chris- 
tian religion ; thrown out, too, with so much spleen and satire, as do no 
honour to his memory, either as an author or a man. His language 
has many beauties. It is firm, and supported in an uncommon degree ; 
it is rich and musical. No English author, as I formerly showed, has 
attended so much to the regular construction of his sentences, both with 
respect to propriety, and with respect to cadence. All this gives so 
much elegance and pomp to his language, that there is no wonder it should 
have been highly admired by some. It is greatly hurt, however, by 
perpetual stiffness and affectation. This is its capital fault. His lordship 
can express nothing with simplicity. He seems to have considered it as 
vulgar, and beneath the dignity of a man of quality to speak like other 
men. Hence he is ever in buskins ; full of circumlocution and artificial 
elegance. In every sentence, we see the marks of labour and art ; 
nothing of that ease which expresses a sentiment coming naturally and 
warm from the heart. Of figures and ornament of every kind, he is ex- 
ceedingly fond ; sometimes happy in them : but his fondness for them is 
too visible ; and having once laid hold of some metaphor or allusion that 
pleased him, he knows not how to part with it. What is most wonderful, 
he was a professed admirer of simplicity ; is always extolling it in the 
ancients, and censuring the moderns for the want of it ; though he departs 
from it himself as far as any one modern whatever. Lord Shaftesbury 
possessed delicacy and refinement of taste, to a degree that we may call 
excessive and sickly ; but he had little warmth of passion : few strong 
or vigorous feelings, and the coldness of his character led him to that 
artificial and stately manner which appears in his writings. He was 
fonder of nothing than of wit and raillery ; but he is far from being happy 
in it. He attempts it often, but always awkwardly ; he is stiff, even in his 
pleasantry ; and laughs in form, like an author, and not like a man.* 

From the account which I have given of Lord Shaftesbury's manner, 
it may easily be imagined, that he would mislead many who blindly ad- 
mired him. Nothing is more dangerous to the tribe of imitators, 
than an author, who, with many imposing beauties, has also some very 
considerable blemishes. This is fully exemplified in Mr. Blackwall, of 
Aberdeen, the author of the life of Homer, the Letters on Mythology, 
and the Court of Augustus ; a writer of considerable learning, and of 

* It may perhaps be not unworthy of being mentioned, that the first edition of 
bis Inquiry into Virtue was published, surreptitiously I believe, in a separate form a 
in the year 1699 ; and is sometimes to be met with ; by comparing which, with the 
corrected edition of the same treatise, as it now stands among his works, we see 
one of the most curious and useful examples that I know, of what is called Limce 
labor : the art of polishing language, breaking long sentences, and working up an 
imperfect draught into a highly finished performance. 



LECT. XIX.] VEHEMENT STYLE, 1 39 

ingenuity also ; but infected with an extravagant love of an artificial 
style, and of that parade of language which distinguishes the Shaftesburean 
manner. 

Having now said so much to recommend simplicity, or the easy and 
natural manner of writing, and having pointed out the defects of an oppo- 
site manner ; in order to prevent mistakes on this subject, it is neces- 
sary for me to observe, that it is very possible for an author to write 
simply, and yet not beautifully. One may be free from affectation, and 
not have merit. The beautiful simplicity supposes an author to possess 
real genius ; to write with solidity, purity, and liveliness of imagina- 
tion. In this case, the simplicity or unaffectedness of his manner, is 
the crowning ornament ; it heightens every other beauty ; it is the dress 
of nature, without which, all beauties are imperfect. But if mere un- 
affectedness were sufficient to constitute the beauty of style, weak, trifling, 
and dull writers might often lay claim to this beauty. And, accordingly, 
we frequently meet with pretended critics, who extol the dullest writers 
on account of what they call the "chaste simplicity of their manner ;" 
which, in truth, is no other than the absence of every ornament, through 
the mere want of genius and imagination. We must distinguish, there- 
fore, between that simplicity which accompanies true genius, and which 
is perfectly compatible with every proper ornament of style, and that 
which is no other than a careless and slovenly manner. Indeed, the 
distinction is easily made from the effect produced. The one never fails 
to interest the reader ; the other is insipid and tiresome. 

I proceed to mention one other manner or character of style, different 
from any that I have yet spoken of; which may be distinguished by the 
name of the vehement. This always implies strength ; and is not, by 
any means, inconsistent with simplicity ; but, in its predominant character, 
is distinguishable from either the strong or the simple manner. It has a 
peculiar ardour ; it is a glowing style ; the language of a man, whose 
imagination and passions are heated, and strongly affected by what he 
writes; who is therefore negligent of lesser graces, but pours himself 
forth with the rapidity and fulness of a torrent. It belongs to the 
higher kinds of oratory ; and indeed is rather expected from a man who 
is speaking, than from one who is writing in his closet. The orations 
of Demosthenes furnish the full and perfect example of this species of 
style. 

Among English writers, the one who has most of this character, though 
mixed, indeed, wiih several defects, is Lord Bolingbroke. Bolingbroke 
was formed by nature to be a factious leader ; the demagogue of a popu- 
lar assembly. Accordingly, the stjde that runs through all his political 
writings, is that of one declaiming with heat, rather than writing with 
deliberation. He abounds in rhetorical figures ; and pours himself forth 
with great impetuosity. He is copious to a fault ; places the same 
thought before us in many different views ; but generally with life and 
ardour. He is bold rather than correct ; a torrent that flows strong, 
but often muddy. His sentences are varied as to length and shortness ; 
inclining, however, most to long periods, sometimes including parentheses, 
and frequently crowding and heaping a multitude of things upon one ano- 
ther, as naturally happens in the warmth of speaking. In the choice 
of his words, there is great facility and precision. In exact construction 
of sentences, he is much inferior to Lord Shaftesbury; but greatly 



190 DIRECTIONS FOR [LECT. XIX 

superior to him in life and ease. Upon the whole, his merit as a writer 
would have been very considerable, if his matter had equalled his style. 
But while we find many things to commend in the latter, in the former, 
as I before remarked, we can hardly find any thing to commend. In his 
reasonings, for the most part, he is flimsy and false ; in his political 
writings, factious ; in what he calls his philosophical ones, irreligious and 
sophistical in the highest degree. 

I shall insist no longer on the different manners of writers, or the gene- 
ral characters of style. Some other, besides those which I have men- 
tioned, might be pointed out ; but I am sensible that it is very difficult 
to separate such general considerations of the style of authors from their 
peculiar turn of sentiment, which it is not my business, at present, to 
criticize. Conceited writers, for instance, discover their spirit so much 
in their composition, that it imprints on their stjle a character of pert- 
ness ; though I confess it is difficult to say whether this can be classed 
among the attributes of style, or rather is to be ascribed entirely to the 
thought. In whatever class we rank it, all appearances of it ought to 
be avoided with care, as a most disgusting blemish in writing. Under 
the generaKieads, which I have considered, I have taken an opportunity 
of giving the character of many of the eminent classics in the English 
language. 

From what I have said on this subject, it may be inferred, that to 
determine, among all these different manners of writing, what is precisely 
the best, is neither easy nor necessary. Style is a field that admits of 
great latitude. Its qualities in different authors may be very different : 
and yet in them all beautiful. Room must be left here for genius ; for 
that particular determination which every one receives from nature to 
one manner of expression more than another. Some general qualities, 
indeed, there are of such importance, as should always, in every kind 
of composition, be kept in view; and sOme defects we should always 
study to avoid. An ostentatious, a feeble, a harsh, or an obscure style, 
for instance, are always faults ; and perspicuity, strength, neatness, and 
simplicity, are beauties to be always aimed at. But as to the mixture of 
all, or the degree of predominancy of any one of these good qualities, 
for forming our peculiar distinguishing manner, no precise rules can be 
given ; nor will I venture to point out any one model as absolutely 
perfect. 

It will be more to the purpose, that I conclude these dissertations upon 
style, with a few directions concerning the proper method of attaining a 
good style in general ; leaving the particular character of that style to 
be either formed by the subject on which we write, or prompted by the 
bent of genius. 

The first direction which I give for this purpose is, to study clear ideas 
on the subject concerning which we are to write or speak. This is a 
direction which may at first appear to have small relation to style. Its 
relation to it, however, is extremely close. The foundation of all good 
style, is good sense accompanied with a lively imagination. The style 
and thoughts of a writer are so intimately connected, that, as I have seve- 
ral times hinted, it is frequently hard to distinguish them. Whenever the 
impressions of things upon our minds are faint and indistinct, or perplexed 
and confused, our style in treating of such things will infallibly be so 
too. Whereas, what we conceive clearly and feel strongly, we shall 
naturally express with clearness and with strength. This, then, we may be 



LECT. XIX.] FORMING A PROPER STYLE, 59| 

assured, is a capital rule as to style, to think closely on the subject, till 
we have attained a full and distinct view of the matter which wp ore 
to clothe in words, till we become warm and interested in i' ; then, and 
not till then, shall we find expression begin to flow. Generally speak- 
ing, the best and most proper expression? are those which a clear view 
of the subject suggests, without much labour or inquiry after them. 
This is Quintilian's observation, lib. viii. c. 1. " Plerumque optima 
verba rebus cohaerent, et cernunter suo lumine. At nos quaerimus ilia, 
tanquam lateant, seque subducant. Ita nunquam putamus verba esse 
circa id de quo dicendum est ; sed ex aliis locis petimus, et inventus 
vim afferimus."* 

In the second place, in order to form a good style, the frequent practice 
of composing is indispensably necessary. Blany rules concerning style 
I have delivered, but no rules will answer the end, without exercise and 
habit. At the same time, it is not every sort of composing that will im- 
prove style. This is so far from being the case, that by frequent, care- 
less, and hasty composition, we shall acquire certainly aver) bad style ; 
we shall have more trouble afterward in unlearning faults, and correct- 
ing negligences, than if we had not been accustomed to composition at all. 
In the beginning, therefore, we ought to write slowly and with much care. 
Let the facility and speed of writing be the fruit of longer practice. 
"Moram et solicitudinem," says Quintilian, with the greatest reason, 1. x, 
c. 3. " initiis impero. Nam primum hoc constituendum ac obtinendum 
est, ut quam optime scribamus ; celeritatem dabit consuetudo. Paulatim 
res facilius se ostendent, verba respondebunt, compositio prosequetur. 
Cuncta denique ut in familia bene instituta in efficio erunt. Summa 
hasc est rei ; cito scribendo non fit ut bene scribatur ; bene scribendo, 
fit ut cito.j 

We must observe, however, that there may be an extreme, in too great 
and anxious a care about words. We must not retard the course of 
thought, nor cool the heat of imagination, by pausing too long on every 
word we employ. There is, on certain occasions, a glow of composition 
which should be kept up, if we hope to express ourselves happily, though 
at the expense of allowing some inadvertencies to pass. A more severe 
examination of these must be left to be the work of correction. For, if 
the practice of composition be useful, the laborious work of correcting is 
no less so; is indeed absolutely necessary to our reaping any benefit from 
the habit of composition. What we have written, should be laid by for 
some little time, till the ardour of composition be past, till the fondness 
for the expressions we have used, be worn off, and the expressions them- 
selves be forgotten; and then, reviewing our work with a cool and critical 
eye, as if it were the performance of another, we shall discern many 
imperfections which at first escaped us. Then is the season for pruning 

* " The most proper words for the most part adhere to the thoughts which are to 
"be expressed by them, and may be discovered as by their own light. But we hunt 
after them, as if they were hidden, and only to be found in a corner. Hence, instead 
of conceiving the words to lie near the subject, we go in quest of them to some 
other quarter, and endeavour to give force to the expressions we have found out." 

t " 1 enjoin, that such as are beginning the practice of composition, write slowly, 
and with anxious deliberation. Their great object at first should be, to write as well 
as possible ; practice will enable them to write speedily. By degrees matter will 
offer itself still more readily ; words will be at hand ; composition will flow ; every 
thing, as in the arrangement of a well-ordered family, will present itself in its proper 
place. The sum of the whole is this ; by hasty composition, we shall never acquire 
»he art of composing well ', by writing well, we shall come to write speedily." 



192 DIRECTIONS FOR FORMING STYLE. [LECT. XIX. 

redundancies ; for weighing the arrangement of sentences ; for attending 
to the juncture and connecting particles ; and bringing style into a regu- 
lar, correct, and supported form. This " Limce Labor'' must be submitted 
to by all who would communicate their thoughts with proper advantage 
to others ; and some practice in it will soon sharpen their eye to the most 
necessary objects of attention, and render it a much more easy and prac- 
ticable work than might at first be imagined. 

In the third place, with respect to the assistance that is to be gained 
from the writings of others, it is obvious, that we ought to render our- 
selves well acquainted with the style of the best authors. This is requi- 
site both in order to form a just taste in style, and to supply us with a full 
stock of words on every subject.. In reading authors with a view to style, 
attention should be given to the peculiarities of their diiferent manners ; 
and in this, and former lectures, I have endeavoured to suggest several 
things that may be useful in this view. I know no exercise that will be 
found more useful for acquiring a proper style, than to translate some 
passages from an eminent English author into our own words. What I 
mean is, to take, for instance, some page of one of Mr, Addison's Spec- 
tators, and read it carefully over two or three times, till we have got a 
firm hold of the thoughts contained in it ; then to lay aside the book ; to 
attempt to write out the passage from memory, in the best way we can ; 
and having done so, next to open the book, and compare what we have 
written, with the style of the author. Such an exercise will, by com- 
parison, show us where the defects of our style lie ; will lead us to the 
proper attentions for rectifying them ; and, among the different ways in 
which the same thought may be expressed, will make us perceive that 
which is the most beautiful. But, 

In the fourth place, I must caution, at the same time, against a servile 
imitation of any author whatever. This is always dangerous. It ham- 
pers genius ; it is likely to produce a stiff manner ; and those who are 
given to close imitation, generally imitate an author's faults as well as his 
beauties. No man will ever become a good writer, or speaker, who has 
not some degree of confidence to follow his own genius. We ought to be- 
ware, in particular, of adopting any author's noted phrases, or transcri- 
bing passages from him. Such a habit will prove fatal to all genuine com- 
position. Infinitely better it is to have something that is our own, though 
of moderate beauty, than to affect to shine in borrowed ornaments, which 
will at last betray the utter poverty of our genius. On these heads of 
composing, correcting, reading, and imitating, I advise every student of 
oratory to consult what Quintilian has delivered in the tenth book of his 
Institutions, where he will find a variety of excellent observations and 
directions, that well deserve attention. 

In the fifth place, it is an obvious, but material rule, with respect to 
style, that we always study to adapt it to the subject, and also to the 
capacity of our hearers, if we are to speak in public. Nothing merits 
the name of eloquent or beautiful, which is not suited to the occasion, 
and to the persons to whom it is addressed. It is to the last degree 
awkward and absurd, to attempt a poetical florid style, on occasions 
when it should be our business only to argue and reason ; or to speak 
with elaborate pomp of expression, before persons who comprehend 
nothing of it, and who can only stare at our unseasonable magnificence. 
These are defects not so much in point of style, as, what is much 
worse, in point of common sense. When we begin to write or speak, 



LECT. XX.] CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF, &c. 1 93 

we ought previously to fix in our minds a clear conception of the end 
to be aimed at ; to keep this steadily in our view, and to suit our style 
to it. If we do not sacrifice to this great object every ill-timed orna- 
ment that may occur to our fancy, we are unpardonable ; and though 
children and fools may admire, men of sense will laugh at us and our 
style. 

In the last place, I cannot conclude the subject without this admo- 
nition, that in any case, and on any occasion, attention to style must not 
engross us so much, as to detract from a higher degree of attention to 
the thoughts ; " Curam verborum," says the great Roman critic, " rerum 
volo esse solicitudinem."* A direction the more necessary, as the pre- 
sent taste of the age in writing, seems to lean more to style than to 
thought. It is much easier to dress up trivial and common sentiments 
with some beauty of expression, than to afford a fund of vigorous, 
ingenious, and useful thoughts. The latter requires true genius ; the 
former may^ be attained by industry, with the help of very super- 
ficial parts. Hence we find so many writers frivolously rich in style, 
but wretchedly poor in sentiment. The public ear is now so much 
accustomed to a correct and ornamented style, that no writer can, with 
safety, neglect the study of it. But he is a contemptible one, who does 
not look to something beyond it ; who does not lay the chief stress 
upon his matter, and employ such ornaments of style to recommend 
it, as are manly, not foppish: "Majore animo," says the writer whom 
I have so often quoted, "aggrediendaesteloquentia; quae si toto corpore 
valet, ungues polire et capillum componere, non existimabit ad curam 
suam pertinere. Qrnatus et virilis et fortis, et sanctus sit ; nee effe- 
minatam levitatem, et fuco ementitum coloremamet; sanguine etviribus 
niteat,"t 



LECTURE XX, 



CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE OF MR. ADDISON IN NO. 411 
OF THE SPECTATOR. 

I have insisted fully on the subject of language and style, both 
because it is, in itself, of great importance, and because it is more 
capable of being ascertained by precise rule, than several other parts 
of composition. A critical analysis of the style of some good author 
will tend further to illustrate the subject ; as it will suggest observations 
which I have not had occasion to make, and will show, in the most prac- 
tical light, the use of those which I have made. 

Mr. Addison is the author whom I have chosen for this purpose. 
The Spectator, of which his papers are the chief ornament, is a book 

* " To your expression be attentive : but about your matter be solicitous." 
i *' A higher spirit ought to animate those who study eloquence. They ought to 
consult the health and soundness of the whole body, rather than bend their attention 
to such trifling objects as paring the nails, and dressing the hair. Let ornament be 
manly and chaste, without effeminate gayety, or artificial colouring ; let it shhre 
with the glow of health and strength." 

B b 



1 y4 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [LECT. XX, 

which is in the hands of every one, and which cannot be praised too 
highly. T^he good sense, and good writing, the useful morality, and the 
admirable vein of humour, which abound in it, render it one of those 
standard books which have done the greatest honour to the English 
nation. I have formerly given the general character of Mr. Addison's 
style and manner, as natural and unaffected^ easy and polite, and full of 
those graces which a flowery imagination diffuses over writing. At the 
same time, though one of the most beautiful writers in the language, he 
is not the most correct ; a circumstance which renders his composition 
the more proper to be the subject of our present criticism. The free 
and flowing manner of this amiable writer sometimes led him into inac- 
curacies, which the more studied circumspection and care of far inferior 
writers have taught them to avoid. Remarking his beauties, therefore, 
which I shall have frequent occasion to do as I proceed, I must also 
point out his negligences and defects. Without a free, impartial discus- 
sion of both the faults and beauties, which occur in his composition, 
it is evident this piece of criticism would be of no service ; and, from 
the freedom which I use in criticising Mr. Addison's style, none can 
imagine, that I mean to depreciate his writings, after having repeatedly 
declared the high opinion which I entertain of them. The beauties of 
this author are so many, and the general character of his style is so 
elegant and estimable, that the minute imperfections I shall have occasion to 
point out, are but like those spots in the sun which may be discovered 
by the assistance of art, but which have no effect in obscuringits lustre. 
It is indeed my judgment, that what Quintilian applies to Cicero, 
" Ille se profecisse sciat, cui Cicero valde placebit," may with justice 
be applied to Mr. Addison ; that to be highly pleased with his manner 
of writing, is the criterian of one's having acquired a good taste in English 
style. The paper on which we are now to enter, is No. 411, the 
first of his celebrated Essays on the Pleasures of the Imagination, in the 
sixth volume of the Spectator. It begins thus : 

" Our sight is the most perfect, and most delightful of all our senses." 

This is an excellent introductory sentence. It is clear, precise, and 
simple. The author lays down, in a few plain words, the proposition 
which he is going to illustrate throughout the rest of the paragraph. In 
this manner, we should always set out. A first sentence should seldom 
be a long, and never an intricate one. 

He might have said, "Our sight is the most perfect and the most delight- 
ful.''' But he has judged better, in omitting to repeat the article the. 
For the repetition of it is proper, chiefly when we intend to point out 
the objects of which we speak, as distinguished from, or contrasted with, 
each other ; and when we want that the reader's attention should rest 
on that distinction. For instance ; had Mr. Addison intended to say, 
that our sight is at once the most delightful, and the most useful, of all 
our senses, the article might then have been repeated with propriety, as 
a clear and strong distinction would have been conveyed. But as 
between perfect and delightful, there is less contrast, there was no occa- 
sion for such repetition. It would have had no other effect, but to add a 
word unnecessarily to the sentence. He proceeds : 

" It fills the mind with the largest variety of ideas, converses with its 
objects at the greatest distance, and continues the longest in action, with- 
out being tired or satiated with its proper enjoyments." 

is sentence deserves attention, as remarkablv harmonious., and well 



LECT. XX.] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, NO. 41 i 19, f 

constructed. It possesses, indeed, almost all the properties of a perfect 
sentence. It is entirely perspicuous. It is loaded with no superfluous 
or unnecessary words. For tired or satiated, toward the end of the sen- 
tence, are not used for synonymous terms. They convey distinct ideas, 
and refer to different members of the period ; that this sense continues 
the longest in action without being tired, that is, without being fatigued with 
its action ; and also, without being satiated with its proper enjoyments. 
That quality of a good sentence, which I termed its unity, is here per- 
fectly preserved. It is our sight of which he speaks. This is the object 
carried through the sentence, and presented to us, in every member of 
it, by those verbs, fills, converses, continues, to each of which it is clearly 
the nominative. Those capital words are disposed of in the most proper 
places ; and that uniformity is maintained in the construction of the sen- 
tence, which suits the unity of the object. 

Observe, too, the music of the period ; consisting of three members, 
each of which, agreeably to a rule I formerly mentioned, grows and 
rises above the other in sound, till the sentence is conducted at last to 
one of the most melodious closes which our language admits ; without 
being\ tired or satiated with its proper enjoyments. Enjoyments is a ivord 
of length and dignity, exceedingly proper for a close which is designed 
to be a musical one. The harmony is the more happy, as this disposition 
of the members of the period which suits the sound so well, is no less 
just and proper with respect to the sense. It follows the order of nature. 
First, we have the variety of objects mentioned, which sight furnishes to 
the mind ; next, we have the action of sight on those objects ; and lastly, 
we have the time and continuance of its action. No order could be more 
natural or happy. 

This sentence has still another beauty. It is figurative, without being 
too much so for the subject. A metaphor runs through it. The sense 
of sight is, in some degree, personified. We are told of its conversing 
with its objects ; and of its not being tired or satiated with its enjoyments ; 
all which expressions are plain allusions to the actions and feelings of 
men. This is that slight sort of personification which, without any ap- 
pearance of boldness, and without elevating the fancy much above its 
ordinary state, renders discourse pictureso^e, and leads us to conceive 
the author's meaning more distinctly, by clothing abstract ideas, in some 
degree, with sensible colours. Mr. Addison abounds with this beauty 
of style beyond most authors; and the sentence which we haye been 
considering, is very expressive of his manner of writing. There is no 
blemish in it whatever, unless that a strict critic might perhaps object, 
that the epithet large, which he applies to variety — the largest variety of 
ideas, is an epithet more commonly applied to extent than to number. 
It is plain, that he here employed it to avoid the repetition of the word 
great, which occurs immediately afterward. 

" The sense of feeling can, indeed, give us a notion of extension, 
shape, and all other ideas that enter at the eye, except colours ; but, at 
the same time, it is very much straitened and confined in its operations, 
to the number, bulk, and distance of its particular objects." 

This sentence is by no means so happy as the former. It is, indeed, 
neither clear nor elegant. Extension and shape can, with no propriety, 
be called ideas ; they are properties of matter. Neither is it accurate, 
even according to Mr. Locke's philosophy, (with which our author 
seems here to have puzzled himself,) to speak of any sense giving us a 



Igfr CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [LECT. XX. 

notion -of ideas ; our senses give us the ideas themselves". The meaning 
would have been much more clear, if the author had expressed himself 
thus : " The sense of feeling can, indeed, give us the idea of exten- 
sion, figure, and all the other properties of matter which are perceived 
fey the e}'e, except colours." 

The latter part of the sentence is still more embarrassed. For what 
meaning can we make of the sense of feeling, being confined in its opera- 
tions, to the number, bulk, and distance of its particular objects? Surely, 
every sense is confined, as much as the sense of feeling, to the number, 
bulk, and distance of its own objects. Sight and feeling are, in this 
respect, perfectly on a level ; neither of them can extend beyond its own 
objects. The turn of expression is so inaccurate here, that one would 
be apt to suspect two words to have been omitted in the printing, which 
were originally in Mr. Addison's manuscript ; because the insertion of 
them would render the sense much more intelligible and clear. These two 
words are, with regard : — It is very much straitened and confined in its 
operations, with regard to the number, bulk, and distance of its particular 
objects. The meaning then would be, that feeling is more limited than 
sight in this respect ; that it is confined to a narrower circle, to a smaller 
number of objects. 

The epithet particular, applied to objects in the conclusion of the sen- 
tence, is redundant, and conveys no meaning whatever. Mr. Addison 
seems to have used it in place of peculiar, as indeed he does often in 
other passages of his writings. But particular, and peculiar, though they 
are too often confounded, are words of different import from each other. 
Particular stands opposed to general ; peculiar stands opposed to what is 
possessed in common with others. Particular expresses what in the lo- 
gical style is called species ; peculiar, what is called differentia. Its pe- 
culiar objects would have signified in this place, the objects of the sense 
of Feeling, as distinguished from the objects of any other sense ; and 
would have had more meaning than its particular objects. Though, in 
truth, neither the one nor the other epithet was requisite. It was suffi- 
cient to have said simply, its objects. 

" Our sight seems designed to supply all these defects, and may be con- 
sidered as a more delicate and* diffusive kind of touch, that spreads itself 
over an infinite multitude of bodies, comprehends the largest figures, and 
brings into our reach some of the most remote parts of the universe." 

Here again the author's style returns upon us in all its beauty. This 
is a sentence distinct, graceful, well arranged, and highly musical. In 
the latter part of it, it is constructed with three members, which are 
formed much in the same manner with those of the second sentence, on 
which I bestowed so much praise. The construction is so similar, that 
if it had followed immediately after it, we should have been sensible of 
a faulty monotony. But the interposition of another sentence between 
them prevents this effect. 

" It is this sense which furnishes the imagination with its ideas ; so that 
by the pleasures of imagination or fancy, (which I shall use promiscu- 
ously) I here mean such as arise from visible objects, either when we 
have them actually in our view ; or when we call up their ideas into our 
minds by paintings, statues, descriptions, or any the like occasion." 

In place of It is this sense which furnishes, the author might have said 
more shortly, This sense furnishes. But the mode of expression which he 
has irsed, is here more proper, This sort of full and ample assertion, it 



LECT. XX.J THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, NO. 411. 397 

is this which, is fit to be used when a proposition of importance is laid 
down, to which we seek to call the reader's attention. It is like pointing 
with the hand at the object of which we speak. The parenthesis in the 
middle of the sentence, which I shall use promiscuously, is not clear. He 
ought to have said, terms which I shall use promiscuously ; as the verb tise 
relates not to pleasures of the imagination, but to the terms of fancy 
and imagination, which he was to employ as synonymous. Any the like 
occasion. To call a painting or a statue an occasion^ is not a happy ex- 
pression, nor is it very proper to speak of calling up ideas by occasions. 
The common phrase, any such means, would have been more natural. 

" We cannot indeed have a single image in the fancy, that did not 
make its first entrance through the sight ; but we have the power of 
retaining, altering, and compounding those images which we have once 
received, into all the varieties of picture and vision that are most agree- 
able to the imagination ; for, by this faculty, a man in a dungeon is capa- 
ble of entertaining himselfwith scenes and landscapes more beautiful than 
any that can be found in the whole compass of nature." 

It may be of use to remark, that in One member of this sentence there 
is an innaccuracy in syntax. It is very proper to say, altering and com- 
pounding those images which we have once received, into all the varieties 
of picture and vision. But we can with no propriety say, retaining them 
into all the varieties ; and yet according to the manner in which the 
words are ranged, this construction is unavoidable. For retaining, 
altering, and compounding, are participles, each of which equally refers 
to, and governs the subsequent noun, those images; and that noun again 
is necessarily connected with the following preposition, into. This 
instance shows the importance of carefully attending to the rules of gram- 
mar and syntax ; when so pure a writer as Mr. Addison could, through 
inadvertence, be guilty of such an error. The construction might easily 
have been rectified, by disjoining the participle retaining from the other 
two participles in this way : " We have the power of retaining those 
images which we have once received ; and of forming them into all the 
varieties of picture and vision." The latter part of the sentence is clear 
and elegant. 

" There are few words in the English language which are employed in 
a more loose and uncircumscribed sense than those of the fancy and the 
imagination." 

There are few 7vords — which are employed. It had been better, if our 
author here had said more simply, few words in the English language- are 
employed. Mr. Addison, whose style is of the free and full, rather than 
the nervous kind, deals, on all occasions, in this extended sort of phrase- 
ology. But it is proper only when some* assertion of consequence is 
advanced, and which can bear an emphasis ; such as that in the first sen- 
tence of the former paragraph. On other occasions, these little words, 
it is, and there are, ought to be avoided as redundant and enfeebling. 
Those of the fancy and the imagination. The article ought to have been 
omitted here. As he does not mean the powers of the fancy and the 
imagination, but the words only, the article certainly had no proper place ; 
neither, indeed, was there any occasion for the other two words, those of. 
Better if the sentence had run thus : " Few words in the English lan- 
guage are employed in a more loose and uncircumscribed sense, than 
fancy and imagination . " 

" I therefore thought it necessary to fix and determine the notion of 



198 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF . [LECT. XX, 

these two words, as I intend to make use of them in the thread of my 
following speculations, that the reader may conceive rightly what is the 
subject which I proceed upon." 

Though fix and determine may appear synonymous words, yet a dif- 
ference between them may be remarked, and they may be viewed, as 
applied here, with peculiar delicacy. The author had just said, that the 
words of which he is speaking were loose and uncircumscribed. Fix 
relates to the first of these, determine to the last. We fix what is loose ; 
that is, we confine the word to its proper place, that it may not fluctuate 
in our imagination, and pass from one idea to another ; and we determine 
what is uncircumscribed, that is, we ascertain its termini or limits, we 
draw the circle round it, that we may see its bounduries. For we can- 
not conceive the meaning of a word, nor indeed of any other thing clearly, 
till we see its limits, and know how far it extends. These two words, 
therefore, have grace and beauty as they are here applied ; though a 
writer more frugal of words than Mr. Addison, would have preferred 
the single word ascertain, which conveys, without any metaphor, the im- 
port of them both. 

The notion of these words, is somewhat of a harsh phrase, at least not 
so commonly used, as the meaning of these words — as I intend to make 
use of them in the thread of my speculations ; this is plainly faulty. A sort 
of metaphor is improperly mixed with words in the literal sense. He 
might very well have said, as I intend to make use of them in my following 
speculations. This was plain language ; but if he chose to borrow an 
allusion from thread, that allusion ought to have been supported ; for 
there is no consistency inmaking use of them in the thread of speculations' ; 
and indeed, in expressing any thing so simple and familiar as this is, 
plain language is always to be preferred to metaphorical — the subject 
which I proceed upon, is an ungraceful close of a sentence ; better the 
subject upon which I proceed. 

" I must therefore desire him to remember, that, by the pleasures of 
the imagination, I mean only such pleasures as arise originally from 
sight, and that I divide these pleasures into two kinds." 

As the last sentence began with, / therefore thought it necessary to fix, 
it is careless to begin this sentence in a manner so very similar, I must 
therefore desire him to remember ; especially, as the small variation of 
using, on this account, or for this reason, in place of therefore, would have 
amended the style. When he says, J mean only such pleasures, it may be 
remarked, that the adverb only is not in its proper place. It is not in- 
tended here to qualify the word mean, but such pleasures ; and therefore 
should have been placed in as close connexion as possible with the 
word which it limits or qualifies. The style becomes more clear and 
neat, when the words are arranged thus ; " By the pleasures of the imagi- 
nation, I mean such pleasures only as arise from sight." 

" My design being, first of all, to discourse of those primary pleasures 
of the imagination, which entirely proceed from such objects as are 
before our eyes ; and in the next place, to speak of those secondary plea- 
sures of the imagination, which flow from the ideas of visible objects, 
when the objects are not actually before the eye, but are called up into 
our memories or formed into agreeable visions of things, that are either 
absent or fictitious." 

It is a great rule in laying down the division of a subject to study neat- 
ness and brevity as much as possible. The divisions are then more dis- 



LECT. XX] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, NO. 411. 199 

tinctly apprehended, and more easily remembered. This sentence is 
not perfectly happy in that respect. It is somewhat clogged by a tedious 
phraseology. My design being first of all, to discourse — in the next place 
to speak of — such objects as are before our eyes — things that are either absent 
or fictitious. Several words might have been spared here ; and the style 
made more neat and compact. 

"The pleasures of the imagination, taken in their full extent, are not 
so gross as those of sense, nor so refined as those of the understanding." 

This sentence is distinct and elegant. 

" The last are indeed more preferable, because they are founded on 
some new knowledge or improvement in the mind of man : yet it must 
be confessed, that those of the imagination are as great and as transport- 
ing as the other." 

In the beginning of this sentence, the phrase more preferable, is such 
a plain inaccuracy, that one wonders how Mr. Addison should have 
fallen into it ; seeing preferable, of itself, expresses the comparative 
degree, and is the same with more eligible, or more excellent. 

I must observe farther, that the proposition contained in the last mem- 
ber of this sentence, is neither clear nor neatly expressed — it must be 
confessed, that those of the imagination are as great and as transporting 
as the other. In the former sentence, he had compared three things to- 
gether ; the pleasures of the imagination, those of sense, and those of 
the understanding. In the beginning of this sentence, he had called the 
pleasure of the understanding the last ; and he ends the sentence, with 
observing, that those of the imagination are as great and transporting as 
the other. Now, besides that the other makes not a proper contrast with 
the last, he leaves it ambiguous, whether by the other, he meant the 
pleasures of the understanding, or the pleasures of sense ; for it may 
refer to either by the construction ; though, undoubtedly, he intended 
that it should refer to the pleasures of the understanding only. The 
proposition reduced to perspicuous language, runs thus : " Yet it must 
be confessed, that the pleasures of the imagination, when compared with 
those of the understanding, are no less great and transporting." 

" A beautiful prospect delights the soul as much as a demonstration ; 
and a description in Homer has charmed more readers than a chapter in 
Aristotle." 

This is a good illustration of what he had been asserting, and is ex- 
pressed with that happy and elegant turn, for which our author is very 
remarkable. 

" Besides, the pleasures of the imagination have this advantage above 
those of the understanding, that they are more obvious, and more easy to 
be acquired." 

This is also an unexceptionable sentence. 

" It is but opening the eye, and the scene enters." 

This sentence is lively and picturesque. By the gayety and briskness 
which it gives the style, it shows the advantage of intermixing such a 
short sentence as this amidst a run of longer ones, which never fails to 
have a happy effect. I must remark, however, a small inaccuracy. A 
scene cannot be said to enter : an actor enters ; but a scene appears, or 
presents itself. 

" The colours paint themselves on the fancy, with very little attention 
of thought or application of mind in the beholder." 

This is still beautiful illustration ; carried or with that agreeable 



200 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [LECT. XX. 

flowerings of fancy and style, which is so well suited to those pleasures 
of the imagination, of which the author is treating. 

" We are struck, we know not how, with the symmetry of any thing 
we see, and immediately assent to the beauty of an object, without 
inquiring into the particular causes and occasions of it." 

There is a falling off here from the elegance of the former sentences. 
We assent to the truth of a proposition ; but cannot so well be said to 
assent to the beauty of an object. Acknowledge would have expressed the 
sense with more propriety. The close of the sentence too is heavy 
and ungraceful — the particular causes and occasions of it ; both particular 
and occasions, are words quite superfluous ; and the pronoun it, is in 
some measure ambiguous, whether it refers to beauty or to object. It 
would have been some amendment to the style to have run thus : " We 
immediately acknowledge the beauty of an object, without inquiring into 
the cause of that beauty." 

" A man of a polite imagination is let into a great many pleasures that 
the vulgar are not capable of receiving." 

Polite is a term more commonly applied to manners or behaviour, 
than to the mind or imagination. There is nothing farther to be ob- 
served on this sentence, unless the use of that for a relative pronoun, 
instead of which ; a usage which is too frequent with Mr. Addison. 
Which is a much more definite word than that, being never employed 
in any other way than as a relative ; whereas that is a word of many 
senses ; sometimes a demonstrative pronoun, often a conjunction. Id 
some cases we are indeed obliged to use that for a relative, in order to 
avoid the ungraceful repetition of which in the same sentence. But 
when we are laid under no necessity of this kind, which is always the 
preferable word, and certainly was so in this sentence. Pleasures which 
the vulgar are not capable of receiving is much better than pleasures that 
the vulgar, 4*c. 

" He can converse with a picture, and find an agreeable companion 
in a statue. He meets with a secret refreshment in a description ; and 
often feels a greater satisfaction in the prospect of fields and meadows, 
than another does in the possession. It gives him, indeed, a kind of 
property in every thing he sees ; and makes the most rude uncultivated 
parts of nature administer to his pleasures ; so that he looks upon the 
world, as it were, in another light, and discovers in it a multitude of charms 
that conceal themselves from the generality of mankind." 

All this is very beautiful. The illustration is happy : and the style 
runs with the greatest ease and harmony. We see no labour, no 
stiffness, or affectation ; but an author writing from the native flow of 
a gay and pleasing imagination. This predominant character of Mr. 
Addison's manner, far more than compensates all those little negligences 
which we are now remarking. Two of these occur in this paragraph. 
The first, in the sentence which begins with, It gives him indeed a kind 
of property. To this it, there is no proper antecedent in the whole 
paragraph. In order to gather the meaning, we must look back as far 
as to the third sentence before, the first of the paragraph, ^which begins 
with, A man of polite imagination. This phrase, polite imagination, is 
the only antecedent to which this it can refer ; and even that is an im- 
proper antecedent, as it stands in the genitive case, as the qualification 
only of a man. 

The other instance of negligence is towards the end of the para- 



LECT. XX.} THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, iNO. 411. 2^1 

graph, so that he looks upon the world, as it mere, in another light. By 
another light, Mr. Addison means, a light different from that in which 
other men view the world. But though this expression clearly conveyed 
this meaning to himself when writing, it conveys it very indistinctly to 
others : and is an instance of that sort of inaccuracy, into which, in 
the warmth of composition, every writer of a lively imagination is apC 
to fall ; and which can only be remedied by a cool, subsequent review. 
As it were, is upon most occasions no more than an ungraceful pallia- 
tive ; and here there was not the least occasion for it, as he was not 
about to say any thing which required a softening of this kind. To 
say the truth, this last sentence, so that he looks upon the world, and 
what follows, had better been wanting altogether. It is no more than 
an unnecessary recapitulation of what had gone before ; a feeble adjec- 
tion to the lively picture he had given of the pleasures of the imagina- 
tion. The paragraph would have ended with more spirit at the words 
immediately preceding ; the uncultivated parts of nature administer to his 
pleasures. 

" There are, indeed, but very few who know how to be idle and 
innocent, or have a relish of any pleasures that are not criminal ; 
every diversion they take, is at the expense of some one virtue or ano- 
ther, and their very first step out of business is into vice or folly." 

Nothing can be more elegant, or more finely turned, than this sen- 
tence. It is neat, clear, and musical. We could hardly alter one word, 
or disarrange one member, without spoiling it. Few sentences are to 
be found, more finished, or more happy. 

"A man should endeavour, therefore, to make the sphere of his inno- 
cent pleasures as wide as possible, that he may retire into them with 
safety, and find in them such a satisfaction as a wise man would not blush 
to take." 

This also is a good sentence, and gives occasion to no material remark. 
"Of this nature are those of the imagination, which do not require 
such a bent of thought as is necessary to our more serious employ- 
ments, nor, at the same time, suffer the mind to sink into that indolence 
and remissness, which are apt to accompany our more sensual delights ; 
but, like a gentle exercise to the faculties, awaken them from sloth and 
idleness, without putting them upon any labour or difficulty." 

The beginning of this sentence is not correct, and affords an instance 
of a period too loosely connected with the preceding one. Of this na- 
ture, says he, are those of the imagination. We might ask, of what na- 
ture ? For it had not been the scope of the preceding sentence to describe 
the nature of any set of pleasures. He had said, that it was every man's 
duty to make the sphere of his innocent pleasures as wide as possible, 
in order that, within that sphere, he might find a safe retreat, and a 
laudable satisfaction. The transition is loosely made, by beginning the 
next sentence with saying, of this nature are those of the imagination. It 
had been better, if, keeping in view the governing object of the preceding 
sentence, he had said, " This advantage we gain," or, " This satisfaction 
we enjoy, by means of the pleasures of imagination." The rest of the 
sentence is abundantly correct. 

" We might here add, that the pleasures of the fancy are more condu- 
cive to health -than those of the understanding, which are worked out by 
dint of thinking, and attended with too violent a labour of the brain." 
On this sentence, nothing occurs deserving of remark., except that 

Cc 



20 4 i CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF, Lc. LECT. XX. 

.■worked out by dint of thinking, is a phrase which borders too much on 
vulgar and colloquial language, to be proper for being employed in a 
polished composition. 

" Delightful scenes, whether in nature, painting, or poetry, have a 
kindly influence on the body, as well as the mind, and not only serve to 
clear and brighten the imagination, but are able to disperse grief and 
melancholy, and to set the animal spirits in pleasing and agreeable mo- 
tions. For this reason, Sir Francis Bacon, in his Essay upon Health, has 
not thought it improper to prescribe to his reader a poem, or a prospect, 
where he particularly dissuades him from knotty and subtile disquisitions, 
and advises him to pursue studies that fill the mind with splendid and 
illustrious objects, as histories, fables, and contemplations of nature." 

In the latter of these two sentences, a member of the period is alto- 
gether out of its place ; which gives the whole sentence a harsh and 
disjointed cast, and serves to illustrate the rules I formerly gave con- 
cerning arrangement. The wrong placed member which I point at, is 
this ; where he particularly dissuades him from knotty and subtile disquisi- 
tions; these words should, undoubtedly, have been placed not where 
they stand, but thus ; Sir Francis Bacon, in his Essay upon Health, where 
he particularly dissuades him from knotty and subtile speculations, has not 
thought it improper to prescribe to him, 4*c. This arrangement reduces 
every thing into proper order. 

" I have, in this paper, by way of introduction, settled the notion of 
those pleasures of the imagination, which are the subject of my present 
undertaking, and endeavoured, by several considerations, to recommend 
to my readers the pursuit of those pleasures ; I shall, in my next paper, 
examine the several sources from whence these pleasures are derived." 

These two concluding sentences afford examples of the proper collo- 
cation of circumstances in a period. I formerly showed, that it is often 
a matter of difficulty to dispose of them in such a manner, as that they 
shall not embarrass the principal subject of the sentence. In the sen- 
tence before us, several of these incidental circumstances necessarily 
come in — By way of introduction— by several considerations — in this paper 
— in the next paper. All which are, with great propriety, managed by 
our author. It will be found, upon trial, that tbere were no other parts 
of the sentence, in which they could have been placed to equal advan- 
tage. Had he said, for instance, " I have settled the notion, (rather, the 
meaning) of those pleasures of the imagination, which are the subject 
of my present undertaking, by way of introduction, in this paper, and 
endeavoured to recommend the pursuit of those pleasures to my readers, 
by several considerations," we must be sensible that the sentence, thus 
clogged with circumstances in the wrong place, would neither have been 
so nea<\ nor so clear, as it is b.v the present construction. 



^03 



LECTURE XXI. 



CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE IN NO. 412 OF THE 

SPECTATOR. 

The observations which have occurred in reviewingthat paper of Mr, 
Addison's, which was the subject of the last lecture, sufficiently show, 
that in the writings of an author, of the most happy genius and distin- 
guished talents, inaccuracies may sometimes be found. Though such 
inaccuracies maybe overbalanced by so many beauties, as render style 
highly pleasing and agreeable upon the whole, j r et it must be desirable 
to every writer to avoicj, as far as he can, inaccuracy of any kind. As 
the subject, therefore, is of importance, I have thought it might be 
useful to carry on this criticism throughout two or three subsequent pa- 
pers of the Spectator. At the same time, I must intimate, that the lec- 
tures on these papers are solely intended for such as are applying them- 
selves to the study of English style. I pretend not to give instruction 
to those w r ho are already well acquainted with the powers of language. 
To them my remarks may prove unedifying ; to some they may seem 
tedious and minute : but to such as have not yet made all the proficiency 
which they desire in elegance of style, strict attention to the composition 
and structure of sentences cannot fail to prove of considerable benefit ; 
and though my remarks on Mr. Addison should, in any instance, be 
thought ill founded, they will, at least, serve the purpose of leading them 
into the train of making proper remarks for themselves.* I proceed 
therefore, to the examination of the subsequent paper, No. 412. 

66 1 shall first consider those pleasures of the imagination, which arise 
from the actual view and survey of outward objects : and these, I think, 
all proceed from the sight of what is great, uncommon, or beautiful." 

This sentence gives occasion for no material remark. It is simple and 
distinct. The two words which he here uses, view and survey, are not 
altogether synonymous : as the former may be supposed to import mere 
inspection ; the latter more deliberate examination. Yet they lie so near 
to one another in meaning, that, in the present case, any one of them, 
perhaps, would have been sufficient. The epithet actual, is introduced, 
in order to mark more strongly the distinction between what our author 
calls the primary pleasures of imagination, which arise from immediate 
view, and the secondary, which arise from remembrance or description. 

* If there be readers who think any farther apology requisite for my adventuring 
to criticise the sentences of so eminent an author as Mr. Addison, I must take 
notice, that I was naturally led to it by the circumstances of that part of the king- 
dom where these lectures were read ; where the ordinary spoken language often 
differs much from what is used by good English authors. Hence it occurred to me, 
as a proper method of correcting any peculiarities of dialect, to direct students of 
eloquence, to analize and examine, with particular attention, the structure of Mr. 
Addison's sentences. Those papers of the Spectator, which are the subject of the 
following lectures, were accordingly given out in exercise to students, to be thus 
examined and analized ; and several of the observations which follow both on the 
beauties and blemishes of this author, were suggested by observations given to me 
»n consequence of the exercise prescribed 



2$4 L-RITICAL EXAMINATION OF [LECT. XXI 

<: There may, indeed, be something so terrible or offensive, that the 
horror, or loathsomeness of an object, may overbear the pleasure which 
results from its novelty, greatness, or beauty ; but still there will be such 
a mixture of delight in the very disgust it gives us, as any of these three 
qualifications are most conspicuous and prevailing." 

This sentence must be acknowledged to be an unfortunate one. The 
sense is obscure and embarrassed, and the expression loose and irregu- 
lar. The beginning of it is perplexed by the wrong position of the words 
something and object. The natural arrangement would have been, there 
?nay, indeed, be something in an object so terrible or offensive, that the hor- 
ror or loathsomeness of it may overbear. These two epithets, horror or 
loathsomeness, are awkwardly joined together, loathsomeness, is, indeed,'a 
quality which maybe ascribed to an object ; but horror is not; it is a 
feeling excited in the mind. The language w'ould have been much more 
correct, had our author said, there may, indeed, be something in an object 
so terrible or offensive, that the horror or disgust which it excites may over- 
bear. The two first epithets, terrible or offensive, would then have ex* 
pressed the qualities of an object ; the latter, horror or disgust, the cor- 
responding sentiments whch these qualities produce in us. Loathsome- 
ness was the most unhappy word he could have chosen : for to be loath- 
some, is to be odious, and seems totally to exclude any mixture of delight, 
which he afterward supposes may be found in the object. 

In the latter part of the sentence there are several inaccuracies. 
When he says, there will be such a mixture of delight in the very disgust 
it gives us, as any of these three qualifications are most conspicuous. The 
construction is defective, and seems hardly grammatical. He meant 
assuredly to say, such a mixture of delight as is proportioned to the degree 
in which any of these three qualifications are conspicuous. We know that 
there may be a mixture of pleasant and disagreeable feelings excited 
by the same object : yet it appears inaccurate to say, that there is any 
delight in the very disgust. The plural verb, are, is improperly joined to 
any oj these three qualifications ; for as any is here used distributively, 
and means any one of these three qualifications, the corresponding verb 
ought to have been singular. The order in which the tw r o last words 
are placed, should have been reversed, and made to stand, prevailing 
and conspicuous. They are conspicuous, because they prevail. 

" By greatness, I do not only mean the bulk of any single object, but 
the largeness of a whole view, considered as one entire piece." 

In a former lecture, when treating of the structure of sentences, I 
quoted this sentence as an instance of the careless manner in which 
adverbs are sometimes interjected in the midst of a period. Only, as it 
is here placed, appears to be a limitation of the following verb, mean. 
The question might be put, what more does he than only mean ? as the 
author undoubtedly intended it to refer to the bulk of a single object, it 
would have been placed with more propriety after these words: I do 
not mean the bulk of any single object only, but the largeness of a whole 
view. As the following phrase, considered as one entire piece, seems to 
be somewhat deficient, both in dignity and propriety, perhaps thisadjeo 
tion might have been altogether omitted, and the sentence have closed 
with fully as much advantage as the word view. 

" Such are the prospects of an open champaign country, a vast uncul- 
tivated desert, of huge heaps of mountains, high rocks and precipices, 
or a wide expanse of waters, where we are. not struck with the novelty, 



LECT. XXL] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, NO, 412, 20o 

or beauty of the sight, but with that rude kind of magnificence which 
appears in many of these stupendous works of nature." 

This sentence, in the main, is Beautiful. The objects presented are 
all of them noble, selected with judgment, arranged with propriety, and , 
accompanied with proper epithets. We must, however, observe, that 
the sentence is too loosely, and not very grammatically connected with 
the preceding one. He says, such are the prospects; such, signifies of 
that nature or quality ; which necessarily presupposes some adjective, 
or word descriptive of a quality going before, to which it refers. But, 
in the foregoing sentence there is no such adjective. He had spoken 
of greatness in the abstract only ; and therefore, such has no distinct 
antecedent to which we can refer it. The sentence w r ould have been 
introduced with more grammatical propriety, by saying to this class belong-, 
or, under this head are ranged the prospect, fyc. The of which is prefixed 
to huge heaps of mountains is misplaced, and has, perhaps, been an 
error in the printing ; as, either all the particulars here enumerated 
should have had this mark of the genitive, or it should have been prefixed 
to none but the first. When, in the close of the sentence, the 
author speaks of that rude magnificence, which appears in many of these 
stupendous works of nature, he had better have omitted the word many, 
which seems to except some of them. Whereas, in his general propo- 
sition he undoubtedly meant to include all the stupendous works he had 
enumerated; and there is no question that, in all of them, a rude mag- 
nificence appears. 

" Our imagination loves to be filled with an object, or to grasp at any 
thing that is too big for it's capacity. We are flung into a pleasing asto- 
nishment at such unbounded views ; and feel a delightful stillness and 
amazement in the soul, at the apprehension of them." 

The language here is elegant, and several of the expressions remark- 
ably happy. There is nothing which requires any animadversion except 
the close, at the apprehension of them. Not only is this a languid 
enfeebling conclusion of a sentence, otherwise beautiful, but the apprehen- 
sion of views, is a phrase destitute of all propriety, and indeed, scarcely 
intelligible. Had this adjection been entirely omitted, and the sentence 
been allowed to close with stillness and amazement in the soul, it would 
have been a great improvement. Nothing is frequently more hurtful to 
the grace or vivacity of a period, than superfluous dragging words at 
the conclusion. 

" The mind of man naturally hates every thing that looks like a 
restraint upon it, and is apt to fancy itself under a sort of confinement, 
when the sight is pent up in a narrow compass, and shortened on every 
side by the neighbourhood of walls or mountains. On the contrary, a spa- 
cious horizon is an image of liberty, where the eye has room to range 
abroad, to expatiate at large on the immensity of its views, and to lose 
itself amidst the variety of objects that offer themselves to its observation. 
Such wide and undetermined prospects are as pleasing to the fancy, as 
the speculations of eternity, or infinitude, are to the understanding." 

Our author's style appears here in all that native beauty which cannot 
be too much praised. The numbers flow smoothly, and with a grace- 
ful harmony. The words which he has chosen carry a certain ampli- 
tude and fulness, well suited to the nature of the subject ; and the 
members of the periods rise in a gradation accommodated to the rise 



208 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [L.ECJ. Xth 

of the thought. The eye first ranges abroad ; then expatiates at large 
on the immensity of its views ; and, at last, loses itself amidst the variety 
of objects that offer themselves to its observation. The fancy is elegantly 
contrasted with the understanding, prospects with speculations, and "wide 
and undetermined prospects, with speculations of eternity and infinitude. 

*' But if there be a beauty or uncommonness joined with this gran- 
deur, as in a troubled ocean, a heaven adorned with stars and meteors, 
or the spacious landscape cut out into rivers, woods, rocks and meadows, 
the pleasure still grows upon us as it arises from more than a single prin- 
ciple." 

The article prefixed to beauty, in the beginning of this sentence, 
might have been omitted, and the st}Te have run, perhaps, to more 
advantage thus thus: but if beauty, or uncommonness be joined to this gran- 
deur — a landscape cut out into rivers, woods, &c. seems unseasonably to 
imply an artificial formation, and would have been better expressed by 
diversified with rivers, woods, &c. 

" Every thing that is new or uncommon, raises a pleasure in the ima- 
gination, because it fills the soul with an agreeable surprise, gratifies its 
curiosity, and gives it an idea of which it was not before possessed. We 
are, indeed, so often conversant with one set of objects, and tired out 
with so many repeated shows of the same things, that whatever is new 
or uncommon contributes a little to vary human life, and to divert our 
rninds, for a while, with the strangeness of its appearance. It serves us 
for a kind of refreshment, and takes off from that satiety we are apt to 
complain of in our usual and ordinary entertainments." 

The style in these sentences flows in an easy and agreeable man- 
ner. A severe critic might point out some expressions that would bear 
being retrenched. But this would alter the genius and character of 
Mr. Addison's style. We must always remember that good composition 
admits of being carried on under many different forms. Style must 
not be reduced to one precise standard. One writer may be as agreea- 
ble, by a pleasing diffuseness, when the subject bears, and his genius 
prompts it, as another by a concise and forcible manner. It is fit, how- 
ever, to observe, that in the beginning of those sentences which we 
have at present before us, the phrase, raises a pleasure in the imagina- 
tion, is unquestionably too flat and feeble, and might easily be amended, 
by saying, affords a pleasure to the imagination; and towards the end, 
there are two of's which grate harshly on the ear, in that phrase, takes 
off from that satiety we are apt to complain of; where the correction 
is as easily made as in the other case, by substituting, diminishes that 
satiety of which we are apt to complain.-'' Such instances show the 
advantage of frequent reviews of what we have written, in order to give 
proper correctness and polish to our language. 

" It is this which bestows charms on a monster, and makes even the 
imperfections of nature please us. It is this that recommends variety, 
where the mind is every instant called off to something new, and the 
attention not suffered to dwell too long and waste itself, on any particular 
object. It is this, likewise, that improves what is great or beautiful, and 
makes it afford the mind a double entertainment." 

Still the style proceeds with perspicuity, grace, and harmony. The 
full and ample assertion, with which each of these sentences is intro- 
duced, frequent on many occasions with our author, is here proper 
and seasonable ; as it was his intention to magnify, as much as posible, 



LECT. XXl.'j THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, NO. 412, 207 

the effects of novelty and variety, and to draw our attention to them . 
His frequent use of that, instead of which, is another peculiarity of his 
style ; but, on this occasion in particular cannot be much commended , 
as, it is this which, seems, in every view, to be better than, it is this that, 
three times repeated. I must likewise take notice, that the antecedent 
to, it is this, when critically considered, is not altogether proper. It 
refers, as we disco v r er by the sense, to whatever is new or uncommon. 
But as it is not good language to say, whatever is neiv bestows charms on 
a monster, one cannot avoid thinking that our author had done better to 
have begun the first of these three sentences, with saying, it is novelty 
which bestows charms on a monster, &c. 

" Groves, fields, and meadows, are at any season of the year pleasant 
to look upon ; but never so much as in the opening of the spring, when 
they are all new and fresh, with their first gloss upon them, and not yet 
too much accustomed and familiar to the eye." 

In this expression, never so much as in the opening of the spring, there 
appears to be a small error in grammar ; for when the construction is 
filled up, it must be read never so much pleasant. Had he, to avoid this, 
said, never so much so, the grammatical error would have been prevented, 
but the language would have be?n awkward. Better to have said, but 
never so agreeable as in the opening of the spring. We readily say, 
the eye is accustomed to objects ; h^.t to say, as our author has done at 
the close of the sentence, that objects are accustomed to the eye, can 
scarcely be allowed in a prose composition. 

" For this reason, there is nothing that more enlivens a prospect than 
rivers, jetteaus, or falls of water, where the scene is perpetually shifting, 
and entertaining the sight, every moment, with something that is new. We 
are quickly tired with looking at hills and valleys, where every thing con- 
tinues fixed and settled, in the same place and posture, but find our 
thoughts a little agitated and relieved at the sight of such objects as are 
ever in motion, and sliding away from beneath the eye of the beholder." 

The first of these sentences is connected in too loose a manner with 
that which immediately precedes it. When he says, for this reason there 
is nothing that more enlivens, fyc. we are entirely to look for the reason 
in what he had just before said. But there we find no reason for what 
he is now going to assert, except that groves and meadows are most 
pleasing in the spring. We know that he has been speaking of the 
pleasure produced by novelty and variety, and our minds naturally recur 
to this, as the reason here alluded to : but his language does not pro- 
perly express it. It is, indeed, one of the defects of this amiable writer, 
that his sentences are often too negligently connected with one another. 
His meaning, upon the whole, we gather with ease from the tenour of his 
discourse. Yet his negligence prevents his sense from striking us 
with that force and evidence, which a more accurate juncture of parts 
would have produced. Bating this inaccuracy, these two sentences, 
especially the latter, are remarkably elegant and beautiful. The close, 
in particular, is uncommonly fine, and carries as much expressive har- 
mony as the language can admit. It seems to paint, what he is describ- 
ing, at once to the eye and the ear. Such objects as are ever in motion, 
and sliding away from beneath the eye of the beholder. Indeed, notwith- 
standing those small errors, which the strictness of critical examination 
obliges me to point out, it may be safely pronounced, that the two para- 
graphs which we haye now considered in this paper, the one concern 



208 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [LECT. XXL 

ing greatness, and the other concerning novelty, are extremely worthy 
of Mr. Addison, and exhibit a style, which they who can successfully 
imitate, may esteem themselves happy. 

" But there is nothing that makes its way more directly to the soul 
than beauty, which immediately diffuses a secret satisfaction and com- 
placency through the imagination, and gives a finishing to any thing that 
is great or uncommon. The very first discovery of it strikes the mind 
with an inward joy, and spreads a cheerfulness and delight through all 
its faculties." 

Some degree of verbosity may be here discovered, and phrases re- 
peated, which are little more than the echo of one another ; such as, 
diffusing satisfaction and complacency through the imagination^— striking 
the mind with inward joy — spreading cheerftdness and delight through all 
its faculties. At the same time, I readily admit that this full and flowing 
style, even though it carry some redundancy, is not unsuitable to the 
gayety of the subject on which the author is entering, and is more 
allowable here than it would have been on some other occasions. 

" There is not perhaps, any real beauty or deformity more in one 
piece of matter than another ; because we might have been so made, 
that whatever now appears loathsome to us, might have shown itself 
agreeable ; but we find, by experience, that there are several modifica- 
tions of matter, which the mind, without any previous consideration, 
pronounces at first sight beautiful or deformed.' 5 

In this sentence there is nothing remarkable, in any view, to draw our 
attention. We may observe only that the word more, towards the begin- 
ning, is not in its proper place, and that the preposition in, is wanting, 
before another. The phrase ought to have stood thus : Beauty or defar* 
mity in one piece of matter, more than in another. 

" Thus we see, that every different species of sensible creatures has 
its different notions of beauty, and that each of them is most affected, 
with the beauties of its own kind. This is no where more remarkable, 
than in birds of the same shape and proportion, when we often see the 
male determined in his courtship by the single grain or tincture of a 
feather, and never discovering any charms but in the colour of its species." 
Neither is there here any particular elegance or felicity of language. 
Different sense of beauty would have been a more proper expression 
to have been applied to irrational creatures, than as it stands, different 
notions of beauty. In the close of the second sentence, when the author 
says, colour of its species, he is guilty of considerable inaccuracy in chan- 
ging the gender, as he had said in the same sentence, that the male was 
determined in his courtship. 

" There is a second kind of beauty, that we find in the several pro- 
ducts of art and nature, which does not work in the imagination with 
that warmth and violence, as the beauty that appears in our proper 
species, but is apt, however, to raise in us a secret delight, and a kind of 
fondness for the places or objects in which we discover it. 

Still, I am sorry to say, we find little to praise. As in his enunciation 
of the subject, when beginning the former paragraph, he appears to 
have been treating of beauty in general, in distinction from greatness or 
novelty ; this second kind of beauty of which he here speaks comes upon 
us in a sort of surprise, and it is only by degrees we learn, that formerly 
he had no more in view than the beauty which the different species of 
sensible creatures find in one another. This second kind of beauty he 



I.ECT. XXL] -IHE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, NO. 415. g#fc 

Aays, we find in the several products of art and nature. He undoubtedly 
means, not in all, but in several of the products of art and nature ; and 
ought so to have expressed himself: and in the place of products, to 
have used also the more proper word, productions. When he adds, that 
this kind of beauty does not work in the imagination with that warmth and 
violence as the beauty that appears in our proper species ; the language 
would certainly have been more pure and elegant, if he had said, that it 
does not work upon the imagination with such warmth and violence, as the 
beauty that appears in our own species. 

" This consists either in the gayety, or variety of colours, in the sym- 
metry and proportion of parts, in the arrangement and disposition of 
bodies, or in a just mixture and concurrence of all together. Among 
these several kinds of beauty, the eye takes most delight in colours." 

To the language, here, I see no objection that can be made. 
* ** We nowhere meet with a more glorious or pleasing show in nature, 
than what appears in the heavens at the rising and setting of the sun, 
which is wholly made up of those different stains of light, that show 
themselves in clouds of a different situation." 

The chief ground of criticism on this sentence, is the disjointed situa- 
tion of the relative which, grammatically, it refers to the rising and 
setting of the sun. But the author meant, that it should refer to the show 
which appears in the heavens at that time. It is too common among 
authors, when they are writing without much care, to make such particles 
as this, and which, refer not to any particular antecedent word, but to the 
tenor of some phrase, or perhaps the scope of some whole sentence, 
which has gone before. This practice saves them trouble in marshalling 
their words, and arranging a period ; but, though it may leave their 
meaning intelligible, yet it renders that meaning much less perspicuous, 
determined, and precise, than it might otherwise have been. The error 
I have pointed out, might have been avoided by a small alteration in the 
construction of the sentence, after some such manner as this ; We no- 
where meet with a more glorious and pleasing show in nature, than what is 
formed in the heavens at the rising and setting of the sun, by the different 
stains of light which show themselves in clouds of different situations. Our 
author writes, in clouds of a different situation, by which he means, clouds 
that differ in situation from each other. But, as this is neither the obvious 
nor grammatical meaning of his words, it was necessary to change the 
expression, as I have done, into the plural number. 

" For this reason, we find the poets, who are always addressing them- 
selves to the imagination, borrowing more of their epithets from colours 
than from any other topic." 

On this sentence nothing occurs, except a remark similar to what 
was made before, of loose connexion with the sentence which precedes. 
For, though he begins with saying, for this reason, the foregoing sentence, 
which was employed about the clouds and the sun, gives no reason for the 
general proposition he now lays down. The reason to which he refers, 
was given two sentences before, when he observed, that the eye takes 
more delight in colours than in any other beauty ; and it was with that 
sentence that the present one should have stood immediately connected. 

" As the fancy delights in every thing that is great, strange, or beautiful, 
and is still more pleased, the more it finds of these perfections in the 
same object, so it is capable of receiving a new satisfaction by the assist- 
ance of another sense." 

D d 



210 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [LECT. XXII. 

Another sense here, means, grammatically, another sense than fancy. 
For there is no other thing in the period to which this expression, another 
sense y can at all be opposed. He had not, for sometime, made mention 
of any sense whatever. He forgot to add, what was undoubtedly in his 
thoughts, another sense than that of sight. 

" Thus any continued sound, as the music of birds, or a fall of water, 
awakens every moment the mind of the beholder, and makes him more 
attentive to the several beauties of the place which lie before him. Thus, 
if there arises a fragrancy of smells or perfumes, they heighten the 
pleasures of the imagination, and make even the colours and verdure 
of the landscape appear more agreeable ; for the ideas of both senses 
recommend each other, and are pleasanter together, than when they 
enter the mind separately ; as the different colours of a picture, when 
they are well disposed, set oif one another, and receive an additional 
beauty from the advantage of their situation." 

Whether Mr. Addison's theory here be just or not, may be questioned. 
A continued sound, such as that of a fall of water, is so far from awakening 
every moment the mind of the beholder, that nothing is more likely to lull 
him asleep. It may, indeed, please the imagination, and heighten 
the beauties of the scene ; but it produces this effect; by a soothing, not 
by an awakening influence. With regard to the style, nothing appears 
exceptionable. The flow, both of language and of ideas, is very agree- 
able. The author continues, to the end, the same pleasing train of thought, 
which had run through the rest of the paper ; and leaves us agreeably 
employed in comparing together different degrees of beauty. 



LECTURE XXII. 



CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE IN NO. 413, OF 
THE SPECTATOR. 

" Though in yesterday's paper we considered how everything that is 
great, new, or beautiful, is apt to affect the imagination with pleasure, we 
must own, that it is impossible for us to assign the necessary cause of this 
pleasure, because we know neither the nature of an idea, nor the sub- 
stance of a human soul, which might help us to discover the conformity 
or disagreeableness of the one to the other ; and therefore, for want of 
such a light, all that we can do in speculations of this kind, is, to reflect 
on those operations of the soul that are most agreeable, and to range, 
under their proper heads what is pleasing or displeasing to the mind, 
without being able to trace out the several necessary and efficient causes 
from whence the pleasure or displeasure arises." 

This sentence, considered as an introductory one, must be acknow- 
ledged to be very faulty. An introductory sentence should never contain 
any thing that can in any degree fatigue or puzzle the reader. When 
an author is entering on a new branch of his subject, informing us of what 
he has done, and what he proposes farther to do, we naturally expect, 
that he should express himself in the simplest and most perspicuous man- 
ner possible. But the sentence now before us is crowded and indistinct ; 



LECT. XXII.j THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, NO. 413. 211 

containing three separate propositions, which, as I shall afterward show, 
required separate sentences to have unfolded them. Mr. Addison's 
chief excellency, as a writer, lay in describing and painting. There he 
is great ; but in methodizing and reasoning, he is not so eminent. As, 
besides the general fault of prolixity and indistinctness, this sentence 
contains several inaccuracies, I shall be obliged to enter into a minute 
discussion of its structure and parts ; a discussion which to many readers 
will appear tedious, and which therefore they will naturally pass over ; 
but which to those who are studying composition, I hope may prove of 
some benefit. 

Though in yesterday's paper we considered. The import of though, is, 
notwithstanding that. When it appears in the beginning of a sentence, its 
relative generally is yet; and it is employed to warn us, after we have 
been informed of some truth, that we are not to infer from it some other 
thing which we might perhaps have expected to follow : as, " Though 
virtue be the only road to happiness, yet it does not permit the unlimited 
gratification of our desires." Now it is plain, that there was so much op- 
position between the subject of yesterday's paper, and what the author 
is now going to say, between his asserting a fact, and his not being able to 
assign the cause of that fact, as rendered the use of this adversative par- 
ticle, though, either necessary or proper in the introduction. We consider- 
ed how every thing that is great, new, or beautiful, is apt to affect the imagi- 
nation with pleasure. The adverb how signifies, either the means by 
which, or the manner in which, something is done. But in truth, neither 
one nor the other of these had been considered by our author. He had 
illustrated the fact alone, that they do affect the imagination with plea- 
sure ; and, with respect to the quomodo or the how, he is so far from 
having considered it, that he is just going to show that it cannot be ex- 
plained, and that we must rest contented with the knowledge of the fact 
alone, and of its purpose or final cause. We must own, thai it is impos- 
sible/or us to assign the necessary cause (he means, what is more com- 
monly called the efficient cause) of this pleasure , because we know neither 
the nature of an idea, nor the substance of a human soul. The substance 
of a human soul is certainly a very uncouth expression, and there ap- 
pears no reason why he should have varied from the word nature, which 
would have been equally applicable to idea and to soul. 

Which might help us, our author proceeds, to discover the conformity or 
disagreeableness of the one to the other. The which, at the beginning of 
this member of the period, is surely ungrammatical, as it is a relative, 
without any antecedent in all the sentence. It refers, by the construc- 
tion, to the nature of an idea, or the substance of a human soul ; but this is 
by no means the reference which the author intended. His meaning is, 
that our knowing the nature of an idea, and the substance of a human 
soul, might help us to discover the conformity or disagreeableness of the 
one to the other : and therefore the syntax absolutely required the word 
knowledge to have been inserted as the antecedentto which. I have before 
remarked, and the remark deserves to be repeated, that nothing is a more 
certain sign of careless composition than to make such relatives as which, 
not refer to any precise expression, but carry a loose and vague relation 
to the general strain of what had gone before. When our sentences run 
into this form, we may be assured there is something in the construction 
of them that requires alteration. The phrase of discovering the confor- 
mity or disagreeableness of the one to the other is likewise exceptionable ; 



212 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [LECT. XXII. 

for disagreeableness neither forms a proper contrast to the other word, 
conformity, nor expresses what the author meant here, (as far as any 
meaning can be gathered from his words,) that is, a certain unsuitable- 
ness or want of conformity to the nature of the soul. To say the truth, 
this member of the sentence had much better have been omitted altogether. 
The conformity or disagreeableness of an idea to the substance of a human 
soul, is a phrase which conveys to the mind no distinct nor intelligible con- 
ception whatever. The author had before given a sufficient reason for 
his not assigning the efficient cause of those pleasures of the imagination, 
because we neither know the nature of our own ideas nor of the soul ; 
and this farther discussion about the conformity or disagreeableness of 
the nature of the one, to the substance of the other, affords no clear nor 
useful illustration. 

And therefore, the sentence goes on, for want of such a light, all that we 
can do in speculations of this kind, is, to reflect on those operations of the 
soul that are most agreeable, and to range under their proper heads what 
is pleasing or displeasing to the mind. The two expressions in the begin- 
ning of this member, therefore, and for want of such a light, evidently re- 
fer to the same thing, and are quite synonymous. One or other of them, 
therefore, had better have been omitted. Instead of to range under their 
proper heads, the language would have been smoother, if their had been 
lei\ out. Without being able to trace out the several necessary and efficient 
causes from whence the pleasure or displeasure arises. The expression* 
from whence, though seemingly justified by very frequent usage, is taxed by 
Dr. Johnson as a vicious mode of speech ; seeing whence alone, has all 
the power of from whence, which therefore appears an unnecessary re- 
duplication. I am inclined to think, that the whole of this last member of 
the sentence had better have been dropped. The period might have 
closed with full propriety, at the words, pleasing or displeasing to the 
mind. All that follows , suggests no idea that had not been fully conveyed m 
the preceding part of the sentence. Itis amore expletive adjection which 
might be omitted, not only without injury to the meaning, but to the great 
relief of a sentence already labouring under the multitude of words. 

Having now finished the analysis of this long sentence, I am inclined to 
be of opinion, that if, on any occasion, we can adventure to alter Mr. 
Addison's style, it may be done to advantage here, by breaking down this 
period in the following manner : "In yesterday's paper, we have shown 
that every thing which is great, new, or beautiful, is apt to affect the 
imagination with pleasure. We must own, that it is impossible for us to 
assign the efficient cause of this pleasure, because we know not the na- 
ture either of an idea, or of the human soul. All that we can do, there- 
fore, in speculations of this kind, is to reflect on the operations of the 
soul, which are most agreeable, and to range under proper heads, what 
is pleasing or displeasing to the mind." We proceed now to the exami- 
nation of the following sentences. 

"Final causes lie more bare and open to our observation, as there are 
often a great variety that belong to the same effect : and these, though 
they are not altogether so satisfactory, are generally more useful than 
ihe*other, as they give us greater occasion of admiring the goodness and 
wisdom of the first contriver." 

Though some difference might be traced between the sense of bare 
and open, yet, as they are here employed, they are so nearly synony- 
mous, that one of them was sufficient, It would have been enough 



LKCT. XXII. j THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, NO. 413. 2Jg 

to have said, Final causes lie more open to observation. One can scarcely 
help observing here, that the obviousness of final causes does not pro- 
ceed, as Mr. Addison supposes, from a variety of them concurring in 
the same effect, which is often not the case ; but from our being able to 
ascertain more clearly, from our own experience, the congruity of a 
final cause with the circumstances of our condition ; whereas the con- 
stituent parts of subjects, whence efficient causes proceed, lie for the 
most part beyond the reach of our faculties. But as this remark re- 
spects the thought more than the style, it is sufficient for us to observe., 
that when he says, a great variety that belong to the same effect, the ex- 
pression, strictly considered, is not altogether proper. The accessory is 
properly said to belong to the principal ; not the principal to the acces- 
sory. Now an effect is considered as the accessory or consequence of 
its cause; and therefore, though we might well say a variety of effects 
belong to the same cause, it seems not so proper to say, that a variety of 
causes belong to the same effect. 

" One of the final causes of our delight in any thing that is great, may 
be this : The Supreme Author of our being has so formed the soul of 
man, that nothing but himself can be its last, adequate, and proper hap- 
piness. Because, therefore, a great part of our happiness must arise 
from the contemplation of his being, that he might give our souls a just 
relish of such a contemplation, he has made them naturally delight in the 
apprehension of what is great or unlimited." 

The concurrence of two conjunctions, because, therefore, forms rather 
a harsh and unpleasing beginning of the last of these sentences ; and, ire 
the close, one would think, that the author might have devised a happier 
word than apprehension, to be applied to what is unlimited. But that I 
may not be thought hypercritical, I shall make no farther observation 
on these sentences. 

" Our admiration, which is a very pleasing motion of the mind, im- 
mediately rises at the consideration of any object that takes up a good 
deal of room in the fancy, and, by consequence, will improve into the 
highest pitch of astonishment and devotion, when we contemplate his* 
nature, that is neither circumscribed by time nor place, nor to be com 
prehendedby the largest capacity of a created being." 

Here our author's style rises beautifully along with the thought. 
However inaccurate he may sometimes be when coolly philosophizing, 
yet, whenever his fancy is awakened by description, or his mind, as 
here, warmed with some glowing sentiment, he presently becomes great, 
and discovers in his language the hand of a master. Every one must 
observe, with what felicity this period is constructed. The words are 
long and majestic. The members rise one above another, and conduct 
the sentence, at last, to that full and harmonious close, which leaves 
upon the mind such an impression, as the author intended to leave, of 
something uncommonly great, awful, and magnificent. 

" He has annexed a secret pleasure to the idea of any thing that is 
new, or uncommon, that he might encourage us in the pursuit of know- 
ledge, and engage us to search into the wonders of creation ; for every 
new idea brings such a pleasure along with it, as rewards the paihs we 
have taken in its acquisition, and consequently serves as a motive to put 
us upon fresh discoveries." 

The language in this sentence is clear and precise : only, we can- 
not but. observe, in this; and the two following sentences, which are 



214 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [LECT. XXII, 

constructed in the same manner, a strong proof of Mr. Addison's unrea- 
sonable partiality to the particle thai, in preference to which. Annexed 
a secret pleasure to the idea of any thing that is new or uncommon, that he 
might encourage us. Here the first that stands for a relative pronoun, 
and the next that, at the distance only of four words, is a conjunction. 
This confusion of sounds serves to embarrass style. Much better, sure, 
to have said, the idea of any thing which is new or uncommon, that he 
might encourage. The expression with which the sentence concludes, 
a mGtive to put us upon fresh discoveries, is flat, and, in some degree, im- 
proper. He should have said, put us upon making fresh discoveries; 
or rather, serves as a motive inciting us to make fresh discoveries. 

" He has made every thing that is beautiful in our own species, plea- 
sant, that all creatures might be tempted to multiply their kind, and fill 
the world with inhabitants ; for, it is very remarkable, that, wherever 
nature is crost in the production of a monster, (the result of any unna- 
tural mixture) the breed is incapable of propagating its likeness, and of 
founding a new order of creatures ; so that, unless all animals were al- 
lured by the beauty of their own species, generation would be at an 
end, and the earth unpeopled." 

Here we must, however reluctantly, return to the emplojment of 
censure : for this is among the worst sentences our author ever wrote ; 
and contains a variety of blemishes. Taken as a whole, it is extremely 
deficient in unity. Instead of a complete proposition, it contains a sort 
of chain of reasoning, the links of which are so ill put together, that it 
is with difficulty we can trace the connexion ; and, unless we take the 
trouble of perusing it several times, it will leave nothing on the mind 
but an indistinct and obscure impression. 

Besides this general fault, respecting the meaning, it contains some 
great inaccuracies in language. First, God's having made every thing 
which is beautiful in our own species, (that is, in the human species,) plea- 
sant, is certainly no motive for all creatures, for beasts, and birds, and 
fishes, to multiply their kind. What the author meant to say, though he 
has expressed himself in so erroneous a manner, undoubtedly was, "In 
all the different orders of creatures, he has made every thing, which is 
beautiful, in their own species, pleasant, that all creatures might be 
tempted to multiply their land. ' ' The second member of the sentence is 
still worse. For it is very remarkable, that wherever nature is crost in the 
production of a monster, 4"C. The reason which he here gives, for the 
preceding assertion, intimated by the casual particle for, is far from be- 
ing obvious. The connexion of thought is not readily apparent, and 
would have required an intermediate step, to render it distinct. But 
what does he mean, by nature being crost in the production of a monster? 
One might understand him to mean, "disappointed in its intention of 
producing a monster," as when we say, one is crost in his pursuits, we 
mean, that he is disappointed in accomplishing the end which he intend- 
ed. Had he said, crost by the production of a monster, the sense would 
have been more intelligible. But the proper rectification of the expres- 
sion would be to insert the adverb as, before the preposition in, after 
this manner ; wherever nature is crost, as in the production of a monster. 
The insertion of this particle as, throws so much light on the construc- 
tion of this member of the sentence, that I am very much inclined to 
believe, it had stood thus originally, in our author's manuscript ; and 
that the present reading is a typographical error, which, having crept 



L$CT. XXII.] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, SO- 413. 33*5 

into the first edition of the Spectator, ran through all the subsequent 
ones. 

" In the last place, he has made every thing that is beautiful, in all 
other respects, pleasant, or rather has made so many objects appear beau- 
tiful, that he might render the whole creation more gay and delightful^ 
He has given almost every thing about us the power of raising an agree- 
able idea in the imagination ; so that it is impossible for us to behold his 
works with coldness or indifference, and to survey so many beauties 
without a secret satisfaction and complacency." 

The idea, here, is so just, and the language so clear, flowing, and 
agreeable, that, to remark any diffuseness which may be attributed to 
these sentences, would be justly esteemed hypercritical. 

" Things would make but a poor appearance to the eye, if we saw 
them only in their proper figures and motions : and what reason can we 
assign for their exciting in us many of those ideas which are different 
from any thing that exists in the objects themselves, (for such are light 
in colours) were it not to add supernumerary ornaments to the uni- 
verse, and make it more agreeable to the imagination V 

Our author is now entering on a theory, which he is about to illus- 
trate, if not with much philosophical accuracy, yet with great beauty of 
fancy, and glow of expression. A strong instance of his want of accu- 
racy, appears in the manner in which he opens the subject. For what 
meaning is there in things exciting in us many of those ideas which are 
different from any thing that exists in the objects. 9 No. one, sure, ever 
imagined that our ideas exist in the objects. Ideas, it is agreed on all 
hands, can exist nowhere but in the mind. What Mr. Locke's philoso- 
phy teaches, and what our author should have said, is exciting in us many 
ideas of qualities which are different from any thing that exists in the ob- 
jects. The ungraceful parenthesis which follows, for such are light and 
colours, had far better have been avoided, and incorporated with the rest 
of the sentence, in this manner ; " exciting in us many ideas of qualities, 
such as light and colours, which are different from any thing that exists 
in the objects." 

" We are every where entertained with pleasing shows and appari- 
tions. We discover imaginary glories in the heavens, and in the earth, 
and see some of this visionary beauty poured out upon the whole crea- 
tion ; but what a rough, unsightly sketch of nature should we be enter- 
tained with, did all her colouring disappear, and the several distinctions 
of light and shade vanish? In short, our souls are delightfully lost and 
bewildered in a pleasing delusion ; and we walk about like the enchanted 
hero of a romance, who sees beautiful castles, woods, and meadows; 
and, at the same time, hears the warbling of birds, and the purling 01 
streams ; but upon the finishing of some secret spell, the fantastic scene 
breaks up, and the disconsolate knight finds himself on a barren heath, 
or in a solitary desert." 

After having been obliged to point out several inaccuracies, I return 
with much more pleasure to the display of beauties, for which we have 
now full scope ; for these two sentences are such as do the highest honour 
to Mr. Addison's talents as a writer. Warmed with the idea he had 
laid hold of, his delicate sensibility to the beauty of nature is finely 
displayed in the illustration of it. The style is flowing and full, without 
being too diffuse. It is flowery, but not gaudy ; elevated, but not 
ostentatious. 



21 e CRITICAL BXAMINATION OF [LECT. X^IL 

Amidst this blaze of beauties, it is necessary for us to remark one er 
two inaccuracies. When it is said, towards the close of the first of 
those sentences, what a rough unsightly sketch of nature should rue be enter- 
tained with, the preposition with should have been placed at the begin- 
ning, rather than at the end of this member ; and the word entertained, 
is both improperly applied here, and carelessly repeated from the former 
part of the sentence. It was there employed according to its more com- 
mon use, as relating to agreeable objects. We are every where entertained 
with pleasing shows. Here, it would have been more proper to have 
changed the phrase, and said, with what a rough unsightly sketch of nature 
should we be presented. At the close of the second sentence, where it is 
said, the fantastic scene breaks up, the expression is lively, but not alto- 
gether justifiable. An assembly breaks up ; a scene closes or disappears. 

Excepting these two slight inaccuracies, the style here is not only 
correct, but perfectly elegant. The most striking beauty of the passage 
arises from the happy simile which the author employs, and the fine illus- 
tration which it gives to the thought. The enchanted hero, the beautiful 
castles, the fantastic scene, the secret spell, the disconsolate knight, are 
terms chosen with the utmost felicity, and strongly recall all those ro- 
mantic ideas with which he intended to amuse our imagination. Few 
authors are more successful in their imagery than Mr. Addison ; and few 
passages in his works, or in those of any author, are more beautiful and 
picturesque, than that on which we have been commenting. 

"It is not improbable, that something like this may be the state of the 
soul after its first separation, in respect of the images it will receive 
from matter ; though, indeed, the ideas of colours are so pleasing and 
beautiful in the imagination, that it is possible the soul will not be de- 
prived of them, but, perhaps, find them excited by some other occasional 
cause, as they are, at present, by the different impressions of the subtile 
matter on the organ of sight." 

As all human things, after having attained the summit, begin to de- 
cline, we must acknowledge, that, in this sentence, there is a sensible 
falling off from the beauty of what went before. It is broken, and defi- 
cient in unity. Its parts are not sufficiently compacted. It contains, 
besides, some faulty expressions. When it is said, something like this may 
be the state of the soul, to the pronoun this, there is no determined ante- 
cedent ; it refers to the general import of the preceding description, 
which, as I have several times remarked, always renders style clumsy 
and inelegant, if not obscure — the state of the soul after its first separation, 
appears to be an incomplete phrase, and first seems a useless, and even 
an improper word. More distinct if he had said, state of the soul imme- 
diately on its separation from the body. The adverb perhaps is redundant, 
after having just before said, it is impossible. 

" I have here supposed that my reader is acquainted with that great 
modern discovery, which is, at present, universally acknowledged by all 
the inquirers into natural philosophy : namely, that light and colours, as 
apprehended by the imagination, are only ideas in the mind, and not quali- 
ties that have any existence in matter. As this is a truth which has been 
proved incontestably by many modern philosophers, and is, indeed, one 
of the finest speculations in that science, if the English reader would see 
the notion explained at large, he may find it in the eighth chapter of the 
second book of Mr. Locke's Essay on the Human Understanding." 

In these two concluding sentences, the author, hastening to finish, ap- 



(I*. XXlli.j LtiE STYLE IH SPECTATOR, NO. 414. of 7 

pears to write rather carelessly. In the iirst of them , a manifest tautology 
occurs, when he speaks of what is universally acknowledged by all inqui- 
rers. In the second when he calls a truth which has been incontestably 
proved ; first, a speculation, and afterward a notion, the language surely 
is not very accurate. When he adds, one of the finest speculations in that 
science, it does not, at first, appear what science he means. One would 
imagine, he meant to refer to modern philosophers ; for natural philosophy 
(to which, doubtless, he refers) stands at much too great a distance to 
be the proper or obvious antecedent to the pronoun that. The circum- 
stance toward the close, if the English reader would see the notion ex- 
plained at large, he may find it, is properly taken notice of by the author 
of the Elements of Criticism, as wrong arranged, and is rectified thus ; 
the English reader, if he would see the notion explained at large, may 
find it, 4*c. 

In concluding the examination of this paper, we may observe, that 
though not a very long one, it exhibits a striking view both of the beau- 
ties, and the defects, of Mr. Addison's style. It contains some of the 
best, and some of the worst sentences, that are to be found in his works. 
But upon the whole, it is an agreeable and elegant essay. 



LECTURE XXIII 







CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE IN No, 414, OF THE 
SPECTATOR. 

If we consider the works of nature and art, as they are qualified to 
entertain the imagination, we shall find the last very defective in com- 
parison of the former ; for though they may sometimes appear as beauti- 
ful or strange, they can have nothing in them of that vastness and im- 
mensity which afford so great an entertainment to the mind of the be- 
holder." 

I had occasion formerly to observe, that an introductory sentence 
should always be short and simple, and contain no more matter than is 
necessary for opening the subject. This sentence leads to a repetition 
of this observation, as it contains both an assertion and the proof of that 
assertion ; two things which, for the most part, but especially at first 
setting out, are with more advantage kept separate. It would certainly 
have been better, if this sentence had contained only the assertion, 
ending with the word former ; and if a new one had then begun, enter- 
ing on the proofs of nature's superiority over art, which is the subject 
continued to the end of the paragraph. The proper division of the 
period I shall point out, after having first made a few observations which 
occur on different parts of it. 

If we consider the works. Perhaps it might have been preferable if our 
author had begun, with saying, when we consider the works. Discourse 
ought always to begin, when it is possible, with a clear proposition. 
The if, which is here employed, converts the sentence into a supposition, 
which is always in some degree entangling, and proper to be used only 
when the course of reasoning renders it necessary. As this observation , 
however, mav, perhaps, be considered as over-refined, and as the sens* 



218 • CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [f/ECT. XXIH. 

would have remained the same in either form of expression, I do not 
mean to charge our author with any error on this account. We cannot 
absolve him from inaccuracj r in what immediately follows — the works of 
nature and art. It is the scope of the author, throughout this whole 
paper, to compare nature and art together, and to oppose them in seve- 
ral views to each other. Certainly, therefore, in the beginning, he ought 
to have kept them as distinct as possible, by interposing the preposition, 
and saying, the works of nature and of art. As the words stand at pre- 
sent, they would lead us to thick that he is going to treat of these works, 
not as contrasted, but as connected ; as united in forming one whole. 
When I speak of body and soul as united in the human nature, I would 
interpose neither article nor preposition between them ; ." man is com- 
pounded of soul and body."' But the case is altered, if I mean to distin- 
guish them from each other ; then I represent them as separate, and say, 
"I am to treat of the interest of the soul, and of the body." 

Though they may sometimes appear as beautiful or strange. I cannot 
help considering this as a loose member of the period. It does not 
clearly appear at first what the antecedent is to they. In reading on- 
wards, we see the works of art to be meant ; but from the structure of 
the sentence, they might be understood to refer to the former, as well as 
to the last. In what follows, there is a greater ambiguity — may sometimes 
appear as beautiful or strange. It is very doubtful in what sense we are 
to understand as, in this passage. For, according as it is accented in 
reading, it may signify, that they appear equally beautiful or strange, to wit, 
with the works of nature ; and then it has the force of the Latin tarn : of 
it may signify no more than that they appear in the light of beautiful and 
strange ; and then it has the force of the Latin tanquam, without im- 
porting any comparison. An expression so ambiguous is always faulty ; 
and it is doubly so here ; because, if the author intended the former 
sense, and meant (as seems most probable) to employ as for a mark of 
comparison, it was necessary to have mentioned both the compared ob- 
jects ; whereas only one member of the comparison is here mentioned, 
viz. the works of art : and if he intended the latter sense, as was in that 
case superfluous and encumbering, and he had better have said simply, 
appear beautiful or strange. The epithet strange, which Mr. Addison 
applies to the works of art, cannot be praised. Strange works, appears 
not by any means a happy expression to signify what he here intends, 
which is new or uncommon. 

The sentence concludes with much harmony and dignity ; they can 
have nothing in them of that vastness and immensity which afford so 
great an entertainment to the mind of the beholder. There is here a ful- 
ness and grandeur of expression well suited to the subject ; though, per- 
haps, entertainment is not quite the proper word for expressing the effect 
which vastness and immensity have upon the mind. Reviewing the ob- 
servations that have been made on this period, it might, I think, with 
advantage, be resolved into two sentences, somewhat after this manner : 
" When we consider the works of nature and of art, as they are qualified 
to entertain the imagination, we shall find the latter very defective in 
comparison of the former. The works of art may sometimes appear no 
less beautiful or uncommon than those of nature ; but they can have no- 
thing of that vastness and immensity which so highly transport the min^ 
of the beholder. 






LECT. XXIIL] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, NO. 414. 219 

M The one," proceeds our author in the next sentence, " may be as 
polite and delicate as the other ; but can never show herself so august 
and magnificent in the design." 

The one and the other, in the first part of his sentence, must unques- 
tionably refer to the works of nature and of art. For of these he had 
been speaking immediately before ; and with reference to the plural 
word works, had employed the plural pronoun they. But in the course 
of the sentence^ he drops this construction, and passes very incongru- 
ously to the personification of art — can never show herself. To render 
his style consistent, art, and not the works of art, should have been made 
the nominative in this sentence. Art may be as polite and delicate as 
nature, but can never show herself. Polite is a term oftener applied to 
persons and to manners, than to things ; and is employed to signify their 
being highly civilized. Polished, or refined, was the idea which the 
author had in view. Though the general turn of this sentence be elegant, 
yet, in order to render it perfect, I must observe, that the concluding 
words, in the design, should either have been altogether omitted, or 
something should have been properly opposed to them in the preceding 
member of the period, thus : " Art may, in the execution, be as polished 
and delicate as nature ; but, in the design, can never show herself so 
august and magnificent." 

" There is something more bold and masterly in the rough, careless 
strokes of nature, than in the nice touches and embellishments of art." 

This sentence is perfectly happy and elegant ; and carries, in all the 
expressions, that curiosafelicitas, for which Mr. Addison is so often re- 
markable. Bold and masterly, are words applied with the utmost pro- 
priety. The strokes of nature, are finely opposed to the touches of art; 
and the rough strokes to the nice touches ; the former, painting the free- 
dom and ease of nature, and the other, the diminutive exactness of art ; 
while both are introduced before us as different performers, and their 
respective merits in execution very justly contrasted with each other. 

"The beauties of the most stately garden or palace lie in a narrow 
compass, the imagination immediately runs them over, and requires 
something else to gratify her ; but in the wide fields of nature, the sight 
wanders up and down without confinement, and is fed with an infinite 
variety of images, without any certain stint or number." 

This sentence is not altogether so correct and elegant as the former. 
It carries, however, in the main, the character of our author's style ; 
not strictly accurate, but agreeable, easy, and unaffected ; enlivened, 
too, with a slight personification of the imagination, which gives a gayety 
to the period. Perhaps it had been better, if this personification of the 
imagination, with which the sentence is introduced, had been continued 
throughout, and not changed unnecessarily, and even improperly, into 
sight 9 in the second member, which is contrary both to unity and elegance. 
It might have stood thus : the imagination immediately runs them over, 
and requires something else to gratify her ; but in the wide fields of nature 9 
she wanders up and down without confinement. The epithet stately, which 
the author uses in the beginning of the sentence, is applicable, with more 
propriety, to palaces than to gardens. The close of the sentence, with- 
out any certain stint or number, may be objected to, as both superfluous 
and ungraceful . It might perhaps have terminated better in this manner : 
she is fed with an infinite variety of images, and wanders up and dowai 
without confinement. 



;^0 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [LECT. XXIII, 

" For this reason, we always find the poet in love with a country life, 
where nature appears in the greatest perfection, and furnishes out all 
those scenes that are most apt to delight the imagination." 

There is nothing in this sentence to attract particular attention. One 
would think it was rather the country, than a country life, on which the 
remark here made should rest. A country life may be productive of 
simplicity of manners, and of other virtues : but it is to the country itself, 
that the properties here mentioned belong, of displaying the beauties of 
nature, and furnishing those scenes which delight the imagination. 

c 'But though there are several of these wild scenes that are more 
delightful than any artificial shows, yet we find the works of nature stil! 
more pleasant, the more they resemble those of art ; for in this case our 
pleasure rises from a double principle ; from the agreeableness of the 
objects to the eye, and from their similitude to other objects ; we are 
pleased, as well with comparing their beauties, as with surveying them,, 
and can represent them to our minds either as copies or as originals. 
Hence it is, that we take delight in a prospect which is well laid out, 
and diversified with fields and meadows, woods and rivers ; in those acci- 
dental landscapes of trees, clouds, and cities, that are sometimes found 
in the veins of marble, in the curious fretwork of rocks and grottos ; 
and, in a word, in any thing that hath such a degree of variety and regu- 
larity as may seem the effect of design, in what we call the works of 
chance." 

The style, in the two sentences which compose this paragraph, is 
smooth and perspicuous. It lies open in some places to criticism ; but 
lest the reader should be tired of what he may consider as petty remarks, 
I shall pass over any which these sentences suggest ; the rather, too, 
as the idea which they present to us of nature's resembling art, of art's 
being considered as an original, and nature as a copy, seems not very 
distinct nor well brought out, nor indeed very material to our author's 
purpose. 

"If the products of nature rise in value, according as they more or 
less resemble those of art, we may be sure that artificial works receive 
a greater advantage from the resemblance of such as are natural ; be- 
cause here the similitude is not only pleasant, but the pattern more per- 
fect." 

It is necessary to our present design, to point out two considerable 
inaccuracies which occur in this sentence. If the products (he had bet- 
ter have said the -productions) of nature rise in value according as they 
more or less resemble those of art. Does he mean, that these productions 
rise in value both according as they more resemble, and as they less resem- 
ble, those of art? His meaning undoubtedly is, that they rise in value 
only, according as they more resemble them : and, therefore, either these 
words, or less, must be struck out, or the sentence must run thus — pro- 
ductions of nature rise or sink in value, according as they more or less 
resemble. The present construction of the sentence, has plainly been 
owing to hasty and careless writing. 

The other inaccuracy is towards the end of the sentence, and serves 
to illustrate a rule which I formerly gave concerning the position of 
adverbs. The author says, because here the similitude is not only pleasant l „ 
but the pattern more perfect. Here, by the position of the adverb only : 
we are led to imagine that he is going to give some other property of the 
similitude, that h not only pleasant, as he says, but more than pleasant. 



LECT. XXIII. j THE STSTLE IN SPECTATOR, NO. 414. ^1 

it is useful, or, on some account or other, valuable. Whereas, he is 
going to oppose another thing to the similitude itself, and not to this pro- 
perty of its being pleasant ; and, therefore, the right collocation, beyond 
doubt, was, because here not only the similitude is pleasant, but the pattern 
more perfect ; the contrast lying, not between pleasant and more perfect? 
bat between similitude and pattern. Much of the clearness and neatness 
of style depends on such attentions as these. 

"The prettiest landscape I ever saw, was one drawn on the walls of 
a dark room, which stood opposite on one side to a navigable river, and 
en the other, to a park. The experiment is very common in optics." 

In the description of the landscape which follows, Mr. Addison is 
abundantly happy ; but in this introduction to it, he is obscure and in- 
distinct. One who had not seen the experiment of the camera obscura, 
could comprehend nothing of what he meant. And even, after we un- 
derstand what he points at, we are at some loss, whether to understand 
his description as of one continued landscape, or of two different ones 3 
produced by the projection of two camera obscuras on opposite walls, 
The scene, which I am inclined to think Mr. Addison here refers to, is 
Greenwich park ; with the prospect of the Thames, as seen by a camera 
obscura, which is placed in a small room in the upper story of the ob- 
servatory ; where I remember to have seen, many years ago, the whole 
scene here described, corresponding so much to Mr. Addison's account 
of it in this passage, that, at the time, it recalled it to my memory. 

As the observatory stands in the middle of the park, it overlooks, 
from one side, both the river and the park ; and the objects afterward 
mentioned, the ships, the trees, and the deer, are presented in one 
view, without needing any assistance from opposite walls. Put into 
plainer language, the sentence might run thus : " The prettiest landscape 
I ever saw, was one formed by a camera obscura, a common optical in- 
strument, on the wall of a darkroom, which overlooked a navigable river 
and a park." 

" Here you might discover the waves and fluctuations of the water in 
strong and proper colours, with the picture of a ship entering at one 
end, and sailing by degrees through the whole piece. On another, there 
appeared the green shadows of trees, waving to and fro with the wind, 
and herds of deer among them in miniature, leaping about upon the 
wall." 

Bating one or two small inaccuracies, this is beautiful and lively paint- 
ing. The principal inaccuracy lies in the connexion of the two senten- 
ces, here, and on another. I suppose the author meant, on one side, and 
on another side. As it stands, another is ungrammatical, having nothing 
to which it refers. But the fluctuations of the water, the ship entering 
and sailing on by degrees, the trees waving in the wind, and the herds 
of deer among them leaping about, is all very elegant, and gives a beau- 
tiful conception of the scene meant to be described. 

" I must confess the novelty of such a sight may be one occasion of 
its pleasantness to the imagination ; but certainly the chief reason is, its 
near resemblance to nature ; as it does not only, like other pictures, 
give the colour and figure, but the motion of the things it repre- 
sents." 

In this sentence, there is nothing remarkable, either to be praised or 
blamed. In the conclusion, instead of the things it represents, the regu- 
larity of correct style requires the things which it represents. In ttu 



222 CRITICAL EXAMINATION Oi [LECT. XXIIL 

foeginning, as one occasion and the chief reason, are opposed to one 
another, I should think it better to have repeated the same word; one 
reason of its pleasantness to the imagination, but certainly the chief rea- 
son is, &re. 

" We have before observed, that there is generally, in nature, some- 
thing more grand and august than what we meet with in the curiosities of 
art. When, therefore, we see this imitated in any measure, it gives us 
a nobler and more exalted kind of pleasure, than what we receive from 
the nicer and more accurate productions of art." 

It would have been better to have avoided terminating these two sen- 
tences in a manner so familiar to each other ; curiosities of art — produc- 
tions of art. 

"On this account, our English gardens are not so entertaining to the 
fancy as those in France and Italy, where we see a large extent of 
ground covered with an agreeable mixture of garden and forest, 
which represent every where an artificial rudeness, much more charm- 
ing than that neatness and elegance which me meet with in those of our 
own country." 

The expression represent every where an artificial rudeness, is so in- 
accurate, that I am inclined to think, what stood in Mr. Addison's ma- 
nuscript must have been, preset every where. For the mixture of gar- 
den and forest does not represent, but actually exhibits or presents, artifi- 
cial rudeness. That mixture represents indeed natural rudeness, that is, 
is designed to imitate it; but it in reality is, and presents, artificial rude- 
ness. 

" It might indeed be of ill consequence to the public, as well as un- 
profitable to private persons, to alienate so much ground from pasturage 
and the plough, in many parts of a country that is well peopled, and cul- 
tivated to a far greater advantage. But why may not a whole estate 
be thrown into a kind of garden by frequent plantations, that may turn 
as much to the profit as the pleasure of the owner ? A marsh overgrown 
with willows, or a mountain shaded with oaks, are not only more beauti- 
ful, but more beneficial, than when they lie bare and unadorned. Fields 
of corn make a pleasant prospect ; and if the walks were a little taken 
care of that lie between them, and the natural embroidery of the mea- 
dows were helped and improved by some small additions of art, and the 
several rows of hedges were set off by trees and flowers that the soil 
was capable of receiving, a man might make a pretty landscape of his 
own possessions." 

The ideas here are just, and the style is easy and perspicuous, though 
in some places bordering on the careless. In that passage;, for instance, 
if the walks were a little taken care of that lie between them, one member 
is clearly out of its place, and the turn of the phrase, a little taken care 
of, is vulgar and colloquial. Much better if it had run thus : if a little 
care were bestowed on the walks that lie between them. 

" Writers who have given us an account of China, tell us, the inhabi- 
tants of that country laugh at the plantations of our Europeans, which are 
laid out by the rule and the line ; because, they say, any one may place 
trees in equal rows and uniform figures. They choose rather to 
show a genius in works of this nature, and, therefore, always conceal 
the art by which they direct themselves. They have a word, it seems, 
in their language, by which they express the particular beauty of a 



LECT. XXIH.] THE STYLE IN SPECTATOR, NO. 414. 223 

plantation, that thus strikes the imagination at first sight, without dis- 
covering what it is that has so agreeable an effect." 

These sentences furnish occasion for no remark, except that in the 
last of them, particular is improperly used instead of peculiar ; the 
peculiar beauty of a plantation that thus strikes the imagination, was the 
phrase to have conveyed the idea which the author meant ; namely, the 
beauty which distinguishes it from plantations of another kind. 

" Our British gardeners, on the contrary, instead of humouring nature, 
love to deviate from it as much as possible. Our trees rise in cones, 
globes, and pyramids. We see the marks of the scissors on every plant 
and bush." 

These sentences are lively and elegant. They make an agreeable 
diversity from the strain of those which went before ; and are marked 
with the hand of Mr. Addison. I have to remark only, that in the phrase, 
instead of humouring nature, love to deviate from it — humouring and 
deviating, are terms not properly opposed to each other ; a sort of 
personification of nature is begun in the first of them, which is not 
supported in the second. To humouring, was to have been opposed 
thwarting ; or if deviating was kept, following, or going along with 
nature, was to have been used. 

"I do not know whether I am singular in my opinion, but for my own 
part, I would rather look upon a tree, in all its luxuriancy and diffusion 
of boughs and branches, than when it is thus cut and trimmed into a 
mathematical figure ; and cannot but fancy that an orchard, in flower, 
looks infinitely more delightful, than all the little labyrinths of the most 
finished parterre." 

This sentence is extremely harmonious, and every way beautiful. It 
carries all the characteristics of our author's natural, graceful, and 
flowing language. A tree, in all its luxuriancy and diffusion of boughs 
and branches, is a remarkably happy expression. The author seems to 
become luxuriant in describing an object which is so, and thereby renders 
the sound a perfect echo to the sense. 

" But as our great modellers of gardens have their magazines of plants 
to dispose of, it is very natural in them, to tear up all the beautiful plan- 
tations of fruit-trees, and contrive a plan that may most turn to their 
profit, in taking off their evergreens, and the like moveable plants, with 
which their shops are plentifully stocked." 

An author should always study to conclude, when it is in his power, 
with grace and dignity. It is somewhat unfortunate, that this paper did 
not end, as it might very well have done, with the former beautiful 
period. 

The impression left on the mind by the beauties of nature, with which 
he had been entertaining us, would then have been more agreeable. 
But in this sentence there is a great falling off ; and we return with pain 
from those pleasing objects, to the insignificant contents of a nursery- 
man's shop. 



•^ 



(324) 

LECTURE XXIV 



CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF THE STYLE IN A PASSAGE OF 
DEAN SWIFT'S WRITINGS. 

My design in the four preceding lectures, was not merely to appreciate 
the merit of Mr. Addison's style, by pointing out the faults and the beau- 
ties that are mingled in the writings of that great author. They were 
not composed with any view to gain the reputation of a critic : but in- 
tended for the assistance of such as are desirous of studying the most 
proper and elegant construction of sentences in the English language. 
To such, it is hoped, that they may be of advantage ; as the proper 
application of rules respecting style, will always be best learned by 
means of the illustration which examples afford. I conceive that 
examples, taken from the writings of an author so justly esteemed, would 
on that account, not only be more attended to, but would also produce 
this good effect, of familiarizing those who study composition with the 
style of a writer, from whom they may, upon the whole, derive great 
benefit. With the same view, I shall, in this lecture, give one critical 
exercise more of the same kind, upon the style of an author of a dif- 
ferent character, Dean Swift ; repeating the intimation I gave formerly, 
that such as stand in need of no assistance of this kind, and who, there- 
fore, will naturally consider such minute discussions concerning the 
propriety of words, and structure of sentences, as beneath their atten- 
tion, had best pass over what will seem to them a tedious part of the 
work. 

I formerly gave the general character of Dean Swift's style. He is 
esteemed one of our most correct writers. His style is of the plain and 
simple kind ; free from all affectation, and all superfluity; perspicuous, 
manly, and pure. These are its advantages. But we are not to look 
for much ornament and grace in it.* On the contrary, Dean Swift seems 
to have slighted and despised the ornaments of language, rather than to 
have studied them. His arrangement is often loose and negligent. In 
elegant, musical, and figurative language, he is much inferior to Mr. 
Addison. His manner of writing carries in it the character of one who 
rests altogether upon his sense, and aims at no more than giving his 
meaning in a clear and concise manner. 

That part of his writings which I shall now examine, is the beginning 
of his treatise, entitled, "A Proposal for correcting, improving, and 
ascertaining the English Tongue," in a letter addressed to the Earl of 
Oxford, then Lord High Treasurer. I was led, by the nature of the 
subject, to choose this treatise ; but, in justice to the Dean, I must ob- 
serve, that, after having examined it, I do not esteem it one of his most 

- I am glad to find that, in my judgment concerning this author's composition, I 
have coincided with the opinion of a very able critic. " This easy and safe con- 
veyance of meaning, it was Swift's desire to attain, and for having attained, he 
certainly deserves praise, though, perhaps, not the highest praise. For purposes 
merely didactic, when something is to be told that was not known before, it is in 
the highest degree proper ; but against that inattention by which known truths are 
suffered to be neglected, it makes no provision : it instructs, bat does not persuade ' 
Johnson's Lives of the Poet?, in Swift. 



or 



LECT.XXIV.] . DEAN SWIFT-S STYLE, §gg 

correct productions ; but am apt to think it has been more hastily com- 
posed than some other of them. It bears the title and form of a letter ; 
but it is, however, in truth, a treatise designed for the public ; and 
therefore, in examining it, we cannot proceed upon the indulgence due 
to an epistolary correspondence. When a man addresses himself to a 
friend only, it is sufficient if he makes himself fully understood by him: 
but when an author writes for the public, whether he employ the form 
of an epistle or not, we are always entitled to expect, that he shall ex? 
press himself with accuracy and care. Our author begins thus : 

" What J had the honour of mentioning to your Lordship, some time 
ago, in conversations was not a new thought, just then started by accident 
or occasion, but the result of long reflection : and I have been confirm r 
ed in my sentiments by the opinion of some very judicious persons with 
whom I consulted." 

The disposition of circumstances in a sentence, such as serve to limit 
or to qualify some assertion, or to denote time and place, I formerly 
showed to be a matter of nicety ; and I observed, that it ought to be 
always held a rule, not to crowd such circumstances together, but rather 
to intermix them with more capital words, in such different parts of the 
sentence as can admit them naturally. Here are two circumstances of 
this kind placed together, which had better have been separated ; " Some 
time ago in conversation" — better thus : " W'hat I had the honour, some 
time ago, of mentioning to your lordship in conversation — was not a new 
thought," proceeds our author, " started by accident or occasion : the 
different meaning of these two words may not at first occur. They have, 
however, a distinct meaning, and are properly used : for it is one very 
laudable property of our author's style, that it is seldom incumbered with 
superfluous, synonymous words,, " Started by accident," is fortuitously, 
or at random ; started " by occasion," by some incident, which at that 
time gave birth to it. His meaning is, that it was not a new thought 
which either casually sprung up in his mind, or was suggested to him ? 
for the first time,, by the train of the discourse : but, as he adds, " was 
the result of long reflection." He proceeds : 

" They all agree, that nothing would be of greater use towards the 
improvement of knowledge and politeness, than some effectual method 
for correcting, enlarging, and ascertaining our language ; and they think 
it a work very possible to be compassed under the protection of a prince 9 
the countenance and encouragement of a ministry, and the care of pro- 
per persons chosen for such an undertaking." 

This is an excellent sentence ; clear, and elegant. The words are all 
simple, well chosen, and expressive ; and arranged in the most pro- 
per order. It is a harmonious period too, which is a beauty not frequent 
in our author. The last part of it consists of three members, which 
gradually rise and swell above one another, without any affected or un- 
suitable pomp ; " under the protection of a printfe, the countenance and 
encouragement of a mihistry,and the care of proper persons chosen for such 
an undertaking." We may remark, in the beginning of the sentence, the 
proper use of the preposition towards— ■" greater use towards the improve- 
ment of knowledge and politeness" — importing the pointing or tendency of 
any thing to a certain end ; which could not have been so well expressed by 
the preposition/or, commonly employed in place of towards, by authors 
who are less attentive, than Dean Swift was, to the force of words. 

One fault might, perhaps, be found, both with this and the former «pu 



22S CBFHCAL EXAMINATION OF [£E€T. XXIV, 

tenee, considered as introductory ones. We expect, that an introduction 
is to unfold, clearly and directly, the subject that is to be treated of. In 
the first sentence, our author had told us, of a thought he mentioned to 
his lordship in conversation, which had been the result of long reflection, 
and concerning which he had consulted judicious persons. But what 
that thought was, we are never told directly. We gather it indeed from 
the second sentence, wherein he informs us, in what these judicious per- 
sons agreed ; namely, that some method for improving the language was 
both useful and practicable. But this indirect method of opening the 
subject, would have been very faulty in a regular treatise ; though the 
ease of the epistolary form, which our author here assumes in address- 
ing his patron, may excuse it in the present case. 

" I was glad to find your Lordship's answer in so different a style from 
what hath commonly been made use of, on the like occasions, for some 
time past ; that all such thoughts must be deferred to a time of peace; a 
topic which some have carried so far, that they would not have us, by 
any means, think of preserving our civil and religious constitution, be- 
cause we are engaged in a war abroad." 

This sentence also is clear and elegant; only there is one inaccuracy, 
when he speaks of his Lordship's answer being in so different a style 
from what had formerly been used. His answer to what ? or to whom? 
For from anything going before, it does not appear that any application 
or address had been made to his Lordship by those persons, whose opi- 
nion was mentioned in the preceding sentence ; and to whom the answer, 
here spoken of, naturally refers. There is a little indistinctness, as I 
before observed, in our Author's manner of introducing his subject here. 
We may observe too that the phrase, glad to find your answer in so dif- 
ferent a style, though abundantly suited to the language of conversation , 
or of a familiar letter, yet, in regular composition, requires an additional 
Word — " glad to find your answer run in so different a style." 

" It will be among the distinguishing marks of your ministry, my Lord, 
that you have a genius above all such regards, and that no reasonable 
proposals, for the honour, the advantage, or ornament of your country, 
however foreign to your immediate office, was ever neglected by you." 

The phrase, a genius above all such regards, both seems somewhat 
harsh, and does not clearly express what the author means, namely, the 
confined -views of those who neglected every thing that belonged to the 
arts of peace in the time of war. Except this expression, there is no- 
thing that can be subject to the least reprehension in this sentence, nor 
in all that follows, to the end of the paragraph. 

"I confess the merit of this candour and condescension is very much 
lessened, because your Lordship hardly leaves us room to offer our good 
wishes ; removing all our difficulties, and supplying our wants, faster 
than the most visionary projector can adjust his schemes. And there- 
fore, my Lord, the design of this paper is not so much to offer you ways 
and means, as to complain of a grievance, the Tedressing of which is 
to be your own work, as much as that of paying the nation's debts, or 
opening a trade into the South Sea ; and, though not of such immediate 
benefit as either of these, or any other of your glorious actions, yet, 
perhaps, in future ages not less to your honour." 

The compliments which the Dean here pays to his patron, are very 
high and strained ; and show, that, with ail his surliness, he was as 
.capable, on^some occasions., of making his court to a great man by jftat- 



L'ECT. XXTV.J DEAN SWIFT'S STYLE, 227 

tery, as other writers. However, with respect to the style, which is 
the sole object of our present consideration, everything here, as far as 
appears to me, is faultless. In these sentences, and, indeed, through- 
out this paragraph, in general, which we have now ended, our author's 
style appears to great advantage. We see that ease and simplicity, 
that correctness and distinctness, which particularly characterize it. 
It is very remarkable, how few Latinised words Dean Swift employs. 
No writer, in our language, is so purely English as he is, or borrows s© 
little assistance from words of foreign derivation. From none can we 
take a better model of the choice and proper significancy of words. 
It is remarkable, in the sentences we have now before us, how plain 
all the expressions are, and yet at the same time, how significant ; and, 
in the midst of that high strain of compliment into which he rises, how 
little there is of pomp, or glare of expression. How very few writers 
can preserve this manly temperance of style ; or would think a com- 
pliment of this nature supported with sufficient dignity, unless they 
had embellished it with some of those high-sounding words, whose 
chief effect is no other than to give their language a stiff and forced ap- 
pearance ? 

" My Lord, I do here, in the name of all the learned and polite per- 
sons of the nation, complain to your Lordship, as first minister, that our 
language is extremely imperfect ; that its daily improvements are by no 
means in proportion to its daily corruptions ; that the pretenders to 
polish and refine it, have chiefly multiplied abuses and absurdities 5 
and that, in many instances, it offends against every part of grammar." 

The turn of this sentence is .extremely elegant. He had spoken be- 
fore of a grievance for which he sought redress, and he carries on the 
allusion, by entering here directly on his subject, in the style of a pub- 
lic -representation presented to the minister of state. One imperfec- 
tion, however, there is in this sentence, which, luckily for our purpose, 
serves to illustrate a rule before given, concerning the position of ad- 
verbs, so as to avoid ambiguity. It is in the middle of the sentence : 
i l that the pretenders to polish and refine it have chiefly multiplied abuses 
and absurdities." Now, concerning the import of this adverb, chiefly:, 
I ask, whether it signifies that these pretenders to polish the language, 
have been the chief persons who have multiplied its abuses in dis- 
tinction from others, or, that the chief thing which these pretenders 
have done, is to multiply the abuses of our language in opposition to their 
4i doing any thing to refine it ?" These two meanings are really differ- 
ent ; and yet, by the position which the word chiefly has in the sen- 
tence, we are left at a loss in which to understand it. The construction 
would lead us rather to the latter sense ; that the chief thing which 
these pretenders have done, is to multiply the abuses of our language. 
But it is more than probable, that the former sense was what the Dean 
intended, as it carries more of his usual satirical edge ; " that the pre- 
tended refiners of our language were, in fact, its chief corrupters ;" on 
which supposition, his words ought to have run thus : " that the pretenders 
to polish and refine it have been the chief persons to multiply its abuses 
and absurdities ;" which would have rendered the sense perfectly clear. 

Perhaps, too, there might be ground for observing farther upon this 
sentence, that as language is the object with which it sets out ; " that our 
language is extremely imperfect 5" and as there follows an enumeration 
concerning language, in three particulars, it had been better if language 



2^1 Critical examination of _'lect. xxir 

had been kept the ruling word, or the nominative to every verb, without 
changing the construction; by making pretenders the ruling word, as is 
done in the second member of the enumeration, and then, in the third, re- 
turning again to the former word, language. " That the pretenders 
to polish — and that 5 in manj^ instances, it offends" — I am persuaded, that 
the structure of the sentence would have been more neat and happy, and 
its unity more complete, if the members of it had been arranged thus : 
Si That our language is extremely imperfect ; that its daily improvements 
are by no means in proportion to its daily corruptions ; that, in many 
instances, it offends against every part of grammar ; and that the pre- 
tenders to polish and refine it, have been the chief persons to multiply 
its abuses and absurdities." This degree of attention seemed proper to 
be bestowed on such a sentence as this, in order to show how it might 
have been conducted after the most perfect manner, Our author, after 
having said, 

w Lest your Lordship should think my censure too severe, I shall take 
leave to be more particular :" proceeds in the following paragraph : 

" I believe your Lordship will agree with me, in the reason why our 
language is less refined than those of Italy, Spain, or France." 

I am sorry to say, that now we shall have less to commend in our au- 
thor. For the whole of this paragraph, on which we are entering, is. 
in truth, perplexed and inaccurate. Even in this short sentence, we 
may discern an inaccuracy — " why our language is less refined than those 
of Italy, Spain, or France ;" putting the pronoun those in the plural ) 
when the antecedent substantive to which it refers is in the singular. 
our language. Instances of this kind may sometimes be found in 
English authors ; but they sound harsh to the ear, and are certainly 
contrary to the purity of grammar. By a very little attention, this inac- 
curacy might have been remedied, and the sentence have been made 
to run much better in this way ; " why our language is less refined than 
the Italian, Spanish, or French." 

" It is plain, that the Latin tongue, in its purity, was never in this 
island ; towards the conquest of which, few or no attempts were made 
till the time of Claudius ; neither was that language ever so vulgar in 
Britain, as it is known to have been in Gaiil and Spain." 

To say, that " the Latin tongue, in its purity, was never in this island." 
is very careless style ; it ought to have been, " was never spoken in this 
island." In the progress of the sentence, he means to give a reason why 
the Latin was never spoken in its purity among us, because our island 
Was not conquered by the Romans till after the purity of their tongue 
began to decline. But this reason ought to have been brought out more 
clearly. This might easily have been clone, and the relation of the 
several parts of the sentence to each other much better pointed out by 
means of a small variation ; thus : " It is plain that the Latin tongue in 
its purity was never spoken in this island, as few or no attempts towards 
the conquest of it were made till the time of Claudius." He adds, "neither 
was that language ever so vulgar in Britain;." Vulgar was one of the 
worst words he could have chosen for expressing what he means here : 
namely, that the Latin tongue was at no time so general, or so mUch in 
vommon use, in Britain as it is known to have been in Gaul and Spain. 
Vulgar, when applied to language, commonly signifies impure, or de- 
based language, such as is spoken by the low people, whichis quite opposite 
to the author's sense here • fe T * instead of meaning to sav. that the Latin 



r. XXI\ .] DEAN SWIFT'S STYLE. 229 

spoken in Britain was not so debased, as what was spoken in Gaul and 
Spain ; he means just the contrary, and had been telling us, that we never 
were acquainted with the Latin at all, till its purity began to be corrupted. 

" Further, we find that the Roman legions here, were at length all 
recalled to help their country against the Goths and other barbarous in- 
vaders." 

The chief scope of this sentence is, to give a reason why the Latin 
tongue did not strike any deep root in this island, on account of the short 
continuance of the Romans in it. He goes on : 

" Meantime the Britons, left to shift for themselves, and daily harassed 
by cruel inroads from the Picts, were forced to call in the Saxons for 
their defence ; who, consequently, reduced the greatest part of the island 
to their own power, drove the Britons into the most remote and moun- 
tainous parts, and the rest of the country, in customs, religion, and lan- 
guage, became wholly Saxon." 

This is a very exceptionable sentence. First, the phrase " left to shift 
for themselves," is rather a low phrase, and too much in the familiar style 
to be proper in a grave treatise. Next, as the sentence advances — 
4 ' forced to call in the Saxons for their defence, who consequently reduced 
the greatest part of the island to their own power. " What is the meaning of 
consequently here ? If it means afterward, or in progress of time, 
this, certainly, is not a sense in which consequently is often taken ; and 
therefore the expression is chargeable with obscurity. The adverb, 
consequently , in its most common acceptation, denotes one thing following 
from another, as an effect from a cause. If he uses it in this sense, and 
means that the Britons being subdued by the Saxons, was a necessary 
consequence of their having called in these Saxons to their assistance; 
this consequence is drawn too abruptly, and needed more explanation. 
For though it has often happened, that nations have been subdued by 
their own auxiliaries, yet this is not a consequence of such a nature that 
it can be assumed, as it seems here to be done, for a first and self-evident 
principle. But further, what shall we say to this phrase, " reduced the 
greatest part of the island to their own power V we say, " reduce to"rule ; 
reduce to practice :" we can say, that " one nation reduces another to 
subjection." But w r hep dominion or power is used, we always, as far as I 
know, say, " reduce under their power." " Reduce to their power," is'so 
harsh and uncommon an expression, that, though Dean Swift's authority 
in language be very great, yet in the use of this phrase, I am of opinion 
that it would not be safe to follow his example. 

Besides these particular inaccuracies, this sentence is chargeable with 
want of unity in the composition of the whole. The persons and the 
scene are too often changed upon us. First, the Britons are mentioned, 
who are harassed by inroads from the Picts ; next, the Saxons appear, 
who subdue the greatest part of the island, and drive the Britons into 
the mountains ; and, lastly, the rest of the country is introduced, and a 
description given of the change made upon it. All this forms a group 
of various objects, presented in such quick succession, that the mind 
finds it dimcult to comprehend them under one view. Accordingly, it is 
quoted in the Elements of Criticism, as an instance of a sentence ren- 
dered faulty by the breach of unity. 

" This I take to be the reason why there are more Latin words re- 
maining in the British than the old Saxon ; which, excepting some few 
variations in the orthography, is the same in most original words with 



030 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [LECT. XXJV, 

our present English, as .well as with the German and other northern 
dialects." 

This sentence is faulty, somewhat in the same manner with the last. 
It is loose in the connexion of its parts ; and, besides this, it is also too 
loosely connected with the preceding sentence. What he had there 
said concerning the Saxons expelling the Britons, and changing the cus- 
toms, the religion, and the language of the country, is a clear and good 
reason for our present language being Saxon rather than British. This 
is the inference which we would naturally expect him to draw from the 
premises just before laid down : but when he tells us, that " this is the rea- 
son why there are more Latin words remaining in the British tongue than 
in the old Saxon," we are presently at a stand. No reason for this infer- 
ence appears. If it can be gathered at all from the foregoing deduction, 
it is gathered only imperfectly. For, as he had told us, that the Britons 
had some connexion with the Romans, he should have also told us, in 
order to make^out his inference, that the Saxons never had any. The 
truth is, the whole of this paragraph concerning the influence of the 
Latin tongue upon ours, is careless, perplexed, and obscure. His argu- 
ment required to have been more fully unfolded, in order to make it be 
distinctly apprehended, and to give it its due force. In the next para- 
graph, he proceeds to discourse concerning the influence of the French 
tongue upon our language. The style becomes more clear, though not 
remarkable for great beauty or elegance. 

"Edward the Confessor, having lived long in France, appears to have 
been the first who introduced any mixture of the French Tongue with 
the Saxon ; the court affecting what the Prince was fond of, and others 
taking it up for a fashion, as it is now with us. William the Conqueror 
proceeded much further, bringing over with him vast numbers of that 
nation, scattering them in every monastery, giving them great quantities 
of land, directing all pleadings to be in that language, and endeavouring 
to make it universal in the kingdom." 

On these two sentences, I have nothing of moment to observe. The 
sense is brought out clearly, and in simple, unaffected language. 

" This, at least, is the opinion generally received ; but your Lordship 
hath fully convinced me, that the French tongue made yet a greater 
progress here under Harry the Second, who had large territories on that 
continent both from his father and his wife ; made frequent journeys 
and expeditions thither ; and was always attended with a number of his 
countrymen, retainers at court." 

In the beginning of this sentence, our author states an opposition be- 
tween an opinion generally received, and that of his Lordship ; and in com- 
pliment to his patron, he tells us, that his Lordship had convinced him of 
somewhat that differed from the general opinion. Thus one must na- 
turally understand his words : " This, at least, is the opinion generally re- 
ceived; butyour Lordship hath fully convinced me" — Now here there must 
be inaccuracy of expression. For on examining what went before, there 
appears no sort of opposition betwixt the generally received opinion, 
and that of the author's patron. The general opinion was, that William 
the Conqueror had proceeded much farther than Edward the Confessor, 
in propagating the French language, and 'had endeavoured to make it 
universal. Lord Oxford's opinion was, that the French tongue had gone 
on to make a yet greater progress under Harry the Second, than it had 
done binder his predecessor William : which two opinions are as entirely 



LECT.XXIV.] DEAN SWIFT'S STYLE ^i 

consistent with each other, as any can be ; and therefore the opposition, 
here affected to be stated between them, by the adversative particle but? 
was improper and groundless. 

" For some centuries after, there was a constant intercourse between 
France and England, by the dominions we possessed there, and the con- 
quests we made; so that our language, between two and three hundred 
years ago, seems to have had a greater mixture with French than at 
present ; many words having been afterward rejected, and some since 
the days of Spenser ; although we have still retained not a few, which 
have been long antiquated in France." 

This is a sentence too long and intricate, and liable to the same objec- 
tion that was made to a former one, of the want of unity. It consists of 
four members, each divided from the subsequent by a semicolon. In 
going along we naturally expect the sentence is to end at the second of 
these, or at farthest, at the third ; when, to our surprise, a new mem- 
ber pops out upon us, and fatigues our attention in joining all the parts 
together. Such a structure of a sentence is always the mark of careless 
writing. In the first member of the sentence, " a constant intercourse be- 
tween France and England, by the dominions we possessed there, and the 
conquest we made," the construction is not sufficiently filled up. In place 
of" intercourse by the dominions we possessed," it should have been— 
" by reason of the dominions we possessed ;" or, " occasioned by the 
dominions we possessed ;" and in place of, " the dominions we possessed 
there, and the conquests we made," the regular style is — " the dominions 
which we possessed there, and the conquests which we. made." The 
relative pronoun which, is, indeed, in phrases of this kind, sometimes 
omitted. But when it is omitted the style becomes elliptic ; and though in 
conversation, or in very light and easy kinds of writing, such elliptic style 
may not be improper, yet in grave and regular writing, it is better to fill 
up the construction, and insert the relative pronoun. After having said, 
" I could produce several instances of both kinds, if it were of any use 
or entertainment," our author begins the next paragraph thus : 

" To examine into the several circumstances by which the language 
of a country may be altered, would force me to enter into a wide field." 

There is nothing remarkable in this sentence, unless that here occurs 
the first instance of a metaphor since the beginning of this treatise ; 
" entering into a wide field," being put for beginning an extensive sub- 
ject. Few writers deal less in figurative language than Swift. I before 
observed, that he appears to despise ornaments of this kind ; and though 
this renders his style somewhat dry on serious subjects, yet his plain- 
ness and simplicity, I must not forbear to remind my readers, is far pre?- 
ferable to an ostentatious, and affected parade of ornament. 

" I shall only observe, that the Latin, the French, and the English, 
seem to have undergone the same fortune. The first, from the days of 
Romulus to those of Julius Caesar, suffered perpetual changes ; and by 
what we meet in those authors who occasionally speak on that subject, 
as well as from certain fragments of old laws, it is manifest that the 
Latin, three hundred years before Tully, was as unintelligible in his 
time, as the French and English of the same period are now ; and these 
two have changed as much since William the Conqueror (which is but 
little less than seven hundred years) as the Latin appears to have done 
in the like term." 

The Dean plainly appears to be writing negligently here. This 



ggg CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF [ LECT. XXIV 

sentence is one of that involved and intricate kind, of which some 
instances have occurred before ; but none worse than this. It requires 
a very distinct head to comprehend the whole meaning of the period at 
first reading. In one part of it we find extreme carelessness of expression, 
He says, " It is manifest that the Latin, three hundred years before Tully, 
was as unintelligible in his time, as the English and French of the same 
period are now." By the English and French of the same period" must 
naturally be understood, " the English and French that were spoken 
three hundred years before Tully." This is the only grammatical mean- 
ing his words will bear ; and yet assuredly what he means, and what it 
would have been easy for him to have expressed with more precision, is, 
'•' the English and French that were spoken three hundred years ago f* 
or at aperiod equally distant from our age, as the old Latin, which he had 
mentioned, was from the age of Tully. But when an author writes hastily, 
and does not review with proper care what he has written, many such 
inaccuracies will be apt to creep into his style. 

" Whether our language or the French will decline as fast as the Ro- 
man did, is a question that would perhaps admit more debate than it is 
worth. There were many reasons for the corruptions of the last ; as 
the change of their government to a tyranny, which ruined the study 
of eloquence, there being no further use or encouragement for popular 
orators : their giving not only the freedom of the city, but capacity for 
employments, to several towns in Gaul, Spain, and Germany, and 
other distant parts, as far as Asia, which brought a great number of 
foreign pretenders to Rome ; the slavish disposition of the senate and 
people, by which the wit and eloquence of the age were wholly turn- 
ed into panegyric, the most barren of all subjects ; the great corrup- 
tion of manners, and introduction of foreign luxury, with foreign terms 
to express it, with several others that might be assigned ; not to men- 
tion the invasions from the Goths and Vandals, which are too obvious to 
insist on." 

In the enumeration here made of the causes contributing towards 
the corruption of the Roman language, there are many inaccuracies—" 
91 The change of their government to a tyranny ;" Of whose government ? 
He had indeed been speaking of the Roman language, and therefore we 
guess at his meaning ; but the style is ungrammatical ; for he had not 
mentioned the Romans themselves ; and therefore, when he says, " their 
government," there is no antecedent in the sentence to which the pronoun 
their can refer with any propriety.—" Giving the capacity for employ- 
ments to several towns in Gaul," is a questionable expression. For though 
towns are sometimes put for the people who inhabit them, yet to give a 
town " the capacity for employments," sounds harsh and uncouth. " The 
wit and eloquence of the age wholly turned into panegyric," is a phrase 
which does not well express the meaning. Neither wit nor eloquence can 
be turned into panegyric ; but they may be turned towards panegyric, or 
employed in panegyric, which was the sense the author had in view. 

The conclusion of the enumeration is visibly incorrect — " The great 
corruption of manners, and introduction of foreign luxury, with foreign 
terms to express it, with several others that might be assigned." — He 
means, " with several other reasons." The word reasons had indeed been 
mentioned before ; but as it stands at the distance of thirteen lines back- 
ward, the repetition of it here became indispensable, in order to avoid 
ambiguity. " Not to mention," he adds, " the invasions fromtheGoths and 



LECT.XXIV.] OF DEAIs SWIFT'S STYLE. <%$$ 

Vandals, which are too obvious to insist on." One would imagine him to 
mean, that the invasions from the Goths and Vandals, are historical facts 
too well known and obvious to be insisted on. But he means quite a 
different thing, though he has not taken the proper method of express- 
ing it, through his haste, probably, to finish the paragraph : namely, 
that these invasions from the Goths and Vandals, " were causes of the cor- 
ruption of the Roman language too obvious to be insisted on." 

I shall not pursue this criticism any further. I have been obliged to 
point out many inaccuracies in the passage which we have considered. 
But, in order that my observations may not be construed as meant to 
depreciate the style or the writings of Dean Swift below their just 
value, there are two remarks which I judge it necessary to make before 
concluding this lecture. One is, that it were unfair to estimate an 
author's style on the whole, by some passage in his writings, which 
chances to be composed in a careless manner. This is the case with 
respect to this treatise, which has much the appearance of a hasty pro- 
duction : though, as I before observed, it was by no means on that ac- 
count that I pitched upon it for the subject of this exercise. But after 
having examined it, I am sensible that in many other of his writings, the 
Dean is more accurate. 

My other observation, which applies equally to Dean Swift and Mr* 
Addison, is, that there may be writers much freer from such inaccura- 
cies, as I have had occasion to point out in these two, whose style, 
however, upon the whole, may not have half their merit. Refinement 
in language has, of late years, begun to be much attended to. In 
several modern productions of very small value, I should find it diffi- 
cult to point out many errors in language. The words might probably 
be all proper words, correctly and clearly arranged ; and the turn of 
the sentence sonorous and musical ; whilst yet the style, upon the 
whole, might deserve no praise. The fault often lies in what may be 
called the general cast or complexion of the style ; which a person, 
of a good taste discerns to be vicious ; to be feeble, for instance, and 
diffuse ; flimsy or affected ; petulant or ostentatious ; though the faults 
cannot be so easily pointed out and particularized, as when they lie in 
some erroneous or negligent construction of a sentence. Whereas 
such writers as Addison and Swift, carry always those general charac- 
ters of good style, which in the midst of their occasional negligence, 
every person of good taste must discern and approve. We see their 
faults overbalanced by higher beauties. We see a writer of sense and 
reflection expressing his sentiments without affectation, attentive to 
thoughts as well as to words ; and, in the main current of his language, 
elegant and beautiful ; and, therefore, the only proper use to be made 
of the blemishes which occur in the writings of such authors, is to point 
out to those who apply themselves to the study of composition, some 
of the rules which they ought to observe for avoiding such errors ; and 
to render them sensible of the necessity of strict attention to language 
and to style. Let them imitate the ease and simplicity of those great 
authors ; let them study to be always natural, and, as far as they can, 
always correct in their expressions : let them endeavour to be, at some 
times, lively and striking ; but carefully avoid being at any time osten- 
tatious and affected. 



^o4 



LECTURE XXV 



ELOQUENCE, OR PUBLIC SPEAKING— HISTORY OF ELOQUENCE— 
GRECIAN ELOQUENCE—DEMOSTHENES. 

Having finished that part of the course which relates to language and 
style, we are now to ascend a step higher, and to examine the subjects 
upon which style is employed. I begin with what is properly called 
eloquence, or public speaking. In treating of this, 1 am to consider the 
different kinds and subjects of public speaking; the manner suited to 
each ; the proper distribution and management of all the parts of a 
discourse ; and the proper pronunciation or delivery of it. But before 
I enter on any of these heads, it may be proper to take a view of the 
nature of eloquence in general, and of the state in which it has subsist- 
ed in different ages and countries. This will lead into some detail ; but 
I hope a useful one ; as in every art it is of great consequence to have 
a just idea of the perfection of that art, of the end at which it aims, and 
of the progress which it has made among mankind. 

Of eloquence, in particular, it is the more necessary to ascertain the 
proper notion, because there is not any thing concerning which false 
notions have been more prevalent. Hence, it has been so often, and is 
still at this day, in disrepute with many. When you speak to a plain man 5 
of eloquence, or in praise of it, he is apt to hear you with very little 
attention. He conceives eloquence to signify a certain trick of speech ; 
the art of varnishing weak arguments plausibly ; or of speaking, so as to 
please and tickle the ear. " Give me good sense," says he, " and keep 
your eloquence for boys." He is in the right, if eloquence were what 
he conceives it to be. It would be then a very contemptible art indeed, 
below the study of any wise or good man. But nothing can be more 
remote from truth. To be truly eloquent, is to speak to the purpose. 
For the best definition which, I think, can be given of eloquence, is the 
art of speaking in such a manner as to attain the end for which we speak. 
Whenever a man speaks or writes, he is supposed, as a rational being, 
to have some end in view ; either to inform, or to amuse, or to persuade, 
or, in some way or other, to act upon his fellow-creatures. He who 
speaks or writes, in such a manner as to adapt all his words most effec- 
tually to that end, is the most eloquent man. Whatever then the subject 
be, there is room for eloquence ; in history, or even in philosophy, as 
well as in orations. The definition which I have given of eloquence, 
comprehends all the different kinds of it ; whether calculated to in- 
struct, to persuade, or to please. But, as the most important subject of 
discourse is action, or conduct, the power of eloquence chiefly appears 
when it is employed to influence conduct, and persuade to action. As it 
is principally, with reference to this end, that it becomes the object of 
art, eloquence may, under this view of it, be defined, the art of per- 
suasion. 

This being once established, certain consequences immediately follow, 
which point out the fundamental maxims of the art. It follows clearly, 
that in order to persuade,, the most essential requisites are, solid argu- 



LECT. XXV.] ELOQUENCE. OR PUBLtC SPEAivLXG. 235 

ment, clear method, a character of probity appearing in the speaker, 
joined with such graces of style and utterance, as shall draw our atten- 
tion to what he says. Good sense is the foundation of all. No man can 
be truly eloquent without it ; for fools can persuade none but fools. In 
order to persuade a man of sense you must first convince him ; which 
is only to be done by satisfying his understanding of the reasonableness 
of what you propose to him. 

This leads me to observe, that convincing and persuading, though 
they are sometimes confounded, import, notwithstanding, different things, 
which it is necessary for us, at present, to distinguish from each other. 
Conviction affects the understanding only ; persuasion, the will and the 
practice. It is the business of the philosopher to convince me of truth ; 
it is the business of the orator to persuade me to act agreeably to it, by 
engaging my affections on its side. Conviction and persuasion do not 
always go together. They ought, indeed, to go together ; and would do 
so, if our inclination regularly followed the dictates of our understanding. 
But as our nature is constituted, I may be convinced, that virtue, justice, 
or public spirit, are laudable, while, at the same time, I am not persuaded 
to act according to them. The inclination may revolt, though the un- 
derstanding be satisfied : the passions may prevail against the judgment. 
Conviction is, however, always one avenue to the inclination or heart ; 
and it is that which an orator must first bend his strength to gain ; for 
no persuasion is likely to be stable, which is not founded upon convic- 
tion. But, in order to persuade, the orator must go farther than merely 
producing conviction ; he must consider man as a creature moved by 
many different springs, and must act upon them all. He must address 
himself to the passions ; he must paint to the fancy, and touch the heart ; 
and, hence, besides solid argument, and clear method, all the concilia- 
ting and interesting arts, both of composition and pronunciation, enter 
into the idea of eloquence. 

An objection may, perhaps, hence he formed against eloquence ; as 
an art which may be employed for persuading to ill, as well as to good. 
There is no doubt that it may ; and so reasoning may also be, and too 
often is employed, for leading men into error. But who would think of 
forming an argument from this against the cultivation of our reasoning 
powers ? reason, eloquence, and every art which ever has been studied 
among mankind, may be abused, and may prove dangerous in the hands 
of bad men ; but it were perfectly childish to contend, that upon this ac- 
count, they ought to be abolished. Give truth and virtue the same arms 
which you give to vice and falsehood, and the former are likely to prevail. 
Eloquence is no invention of the schools. Nature teaches every man to 
be eloquent, when he is much in earnest. Place him in some critical 
situation ; let him have some great interest at stake, and you will see him 
lay hold of the most effectual means of persuasion. The art of oratory 
proposes nothing more than to follow out that track which nature has first 
pointed out to men. And the more exactly that this track is pursued, the 
more that eloquence is properly studied, the more shall we be guarded 
against the abuse which bad men make of it, and enable the better to 
distinguish between true eloquence and the tricks of sophistry. 

We may distinguish three kinds, or degrees of eloquence. The first, - 
and lowest, is that which aims only at pleasing the hearers. Such, gene- 
rally, is the eloquence of panegyrics, inaugural orations, addresses to 
great men, and other harangues of this sort. This ornamental sort of 



a 36 ELOQUENCE, OR [LECT. XX¥ 

composition is not altogether to be rejected. It may innocently amuse 
and entertain the mind : and it may be mixed, at the same time, with 
very useful sentiments. But it must be confessed, that where the 
speaker has no farther aim than merely to shine and to please, there is 
great danger of art being strained into ostentation, and of the composi- 
tion becoming tiresome and languid. 

A second and a higher degree of eloquence is, when the speaker 
aims not merely to please, but also to inform, to instruct, to convince : 
when his art is exerted, in removing prejudices against himself and his 
cause : in choosing the most proper arguments, stating them with the 
greatest force, arranging them in the best order, expressing and delivering 
them with propriety and beauty ; and thereby disposing us to pass that 
judgment or embrace that side of the cause, to which he seeks to bring 
us. Within this compass, chiefly is employed the eloquence of the bar. 

But there is a third, and still higher degree of eloquence, wherein a 
greater power is exerted over the human mind ; by which we are not 
only convinced, but are interested, agitated, and carried along with the 
speaker ; our passions are made to rise together with his ; we enter 
into all his emotions ; we love, we detest, we resent, according as he 
inspires us ; and are prompted to resolve, or to act, with vigour and 
warmth. Debate in popular assemblies, opens the most illustrious field 
fo this species of eloquence ; and the pulpit also admits it. 

I am here to observe, and the observation is of consequence, that the 
high eloquence which I have last mentioned, is always the offspring of 
passion. By passion, I mean that state of the mind in which it is agita- 
ted, and fired by some object it has in view. A man may convince, and 
even persuade others to act by mere reason and argument. But that 
degree of eloquence which gains the admiration of mankind, and properly 
denominates one an orator, is never found without warmth or passion. 
Passion, when in such a degree as to rouse and kindle the mind, without 
throwing it out of the possession of itself, is universally found to exalt 
all the human powers. It renders the mind infinitely more enlightened, 
more penetrating, more vigorous and masterly, than it is in its calm mo- 
ments. A man, actuated by a strong passion, becomes much greater 
than he is at other times. He is conscious of more strength and force ; 
he utters greater sentiments, conceives higher designs, and executes 
them with a boldness and felicity, of which, on other occasions, he 
could not think himself capable. But chiefly, with respect to persuasion, 
Is the power of passion felt. Almost every man, in passion, is eloquent. 
Then he is at no loss for words and arguments. He transmits to others, 
by a sort of contagious sympathy, the warm sentiments which he feels : 
his looks and gestures are all persuasive ; and nature here shows herself 
infinitely more powerful than art. This is the foundation of that just 
and noted rule : " Si vis me flere, dolendum estprimum ipsi tibi." 

This principle being once admitted, that all high eloquence flows from 
passion, several consequences follow, which deserve to be attended to ; 
and the mention of which will serve to confirm the principle itself. For 
hence the universally acknowledged effect of enthusiasm, or warmth of 
any kind, in public speakers, for affecting their audience. Hence all 
laboured declamation, and affected ornaments of style, which show the 
mind to be cool and unmoved, are so inconsistent with persuasive elo- 
quence. Hence all studied prettinesses, in gesture or pronunciation, 
detract so greatly from the weight of a speaker. Hence a discourse 



LECT. XXV.] PUBLIC SPEAKING, 237 

that is read, moves us less than one that is spoken, as having less the 
appearance of coming warm from the heart. Hence, to call a man cold, 
is the same thing as to say, that he is not eloquent. Hence, a skeptical 
man, who is always in suspense, and feels nothing strongly ; or a cunning 
mercenary man, who is suspected rather to assume the appearance of 
passion than to feel it ; have so little power over men in public speaking. 
Hence, in fine, the necessity of being, and being believed to be, disinter- 
ested, and in earnest, in order to persuade. 

These are some of the capital ideas which have occurred to me, con- 
cerning eloquence in general ; and with which 1 have thought proper to 
begin, as the foundation of much of what I am afterward to suggest. 
From what I have already said, it is evident that eloquence is a high 
talent and of great importance in society ; and that it requires both 
natural genius, and much improvement from art. Viewed as the art of 
persuasion, it requires, in its lowest state, soundness of understanding, 
and considerable acquaintance with human nature ; and, in its higher 
degrees, it requires, moreover, strong sensibility of mind, a warm and 
lively imagination, joined with correctness of judgment, and an extensive 
command of the power of language ; to which must also be added, the 
graces of pronunciation and delivery. Let us next proceed to consider 
in what state eloquence has subsisted in different ages and nations. 

It is an observation made by several writers, that eloquence is to be 
looked for only in free states. Longinus, in particular, at the end of 
his treatise on the sublime, when assigning the reason why so little sub- 
limity of genius appeared in the age wherein he lived, illustrates this 
observation with a great deal of beauty. Liberty, he remarks, is the 
nurse of true genius ; it animates the spirit, and invigorates the hopes 
of men ; excites honourable emulation, and a desire of excelling in every 
art. All other qualifications, he says, you may find among those who 
are deprived of liberty ; but never did a slave become an orator ; he 
can only be a pompous flatterer. Now, though this reasoning be, in 
the main, true ; it must, however, be understood with some limitations. 
For, under arbitrary governments, if they be of the civilized kind, and 
give encouragement to the arts, ornamented eloquence may flourish 
remarkably. Witness France at this day, where, ever since the reign 
of Louis XIV. more of what may be justly called eloquence, within a 
certain sphere, is to be found, than, perhaps, in any other nation in 
Europe ; though freedom be enjoyed by some nations in a much greater 
degree. Their sermons, and orations pronounced on public occasions, 
are not only polite and elegant harangues, but several of them are un- 
commonly spirited, are animated with bold figures, and rise to a degree of 
the sublime. Their eloquence, however, in general, must be confessed 
to be of the flowery, rather than the vigorous kind ; calculated more to 
please and sooth, than to convince and persuade. High, manly, and 
forcible eloquence is, indeed, to be looked for only, or chiefly, in the 
regions of freedom. Under arbitrary governments, besides the general 
turn of softness and effeminacy which such governments may be justly 
supposed to give to the spirit of a nation, the art of speaking cannot be 
such an instrument of ambition, business, and power, as it is in de- 
mocratical states. It is confined within a narrower range ; it can be ex- 
erted only in the pulpit, or at the bar ; but is excluded from those great 
scenes of public business, where the spirits of men have the freest play ; 
where important affairs are transacted, and persuasion, of course, is 



2 3 a GRECIAN ELOQUENCE. [LECT. XXV; 

more seriously studied. Wherever man can acquire most power over 
man by means of reason and discourse, which certainly is under a free 
state of government, there we may naturally expect that true eloquence 
will be best understood, and carried to the greatest height. 

Hence, in tracing the rise of oratory, we need not attempt to go far 
back into the early ages of the world, or search for it among the monu- 
ments of Eastern or Egyptian antiquity. In those ages, there was, 
indeed, an eloquence of a certain kind; but it approached nearer to 
poetry than to what we properly call oratory. There is reason to be- 
lieve, as I formerly showed, that the language of the first ages was pas- 
sionate and metaphorical ; owing partly to the scanty stock of words, of 
which speech then consisted ; and partly to the tincture which language 
naturally takes from the savage and uncultivated state of men, agitated 
by unrestrained passions, and struck by events, which to them are 
strange and surprising. In this state, rapture and enthusiasm, the parents 
of poetry, had an ample field. But while the intercourse of men was 
as yet unfrequent, and force and strength were the chief means employed 
in deciding controversies, the arts of oratory and persuasion, of reasoning 
and debate, could be but little known. The first empires that arose, the 
Assyrian and Egyptian, were of the despotic kind. The whole power 
was in the bands of one, or at most of a few. The multitude were 
accustomed to a blind reverence ; they were led, not persuaded ; and 
none of those refinements of society, which make public speaking an 
object of importance, were as yet introduced. 

It is not till the rise of the Grecian republics, that we find any re- 
markable appearances of eloquence as the art of persuasion ; and these 
gave it such a field as it never had before, and, perhaps, has never had 
again since that time. And, therefore, as the Grecian eloquence has 
ever been the object of admiration to those who have studied the powers 
of speech, it is necessary, that we fix our attention, for a little, on this 
period. 

Greece was divided into a multitude of petty states. These were 
governed, at first by kings, who were called tyrants, and who being, in suc- 
cession, expelled from all these states, there sprung up a great number 
of democratical governments, founded nearly on the same plan, animated 
by the"same high spirit of freedom, mutually jealous, and rivals of one 
another. We may compute the flourishing period of those Grecian states, 
to have lasted from the battle of Marathon, till the time of Alexan- 
der the Great, who subdued the liberties of Greece ; a period which 
comprehends about 150 years, and within which are to be found most of 
their celebrated poets and philosophers, but chiefly their orators : for 
though poetry and philosophy were not extinct among them after that 
period, yet eloquence hardly made any figure. 

Of these Grecian republics, the most noted, by far, for eloquence, and, 
indeed, for arts of every kind, was that of Athens. The Athenians were 
an ingenious, quick, sprightly people ; practised in business, and sharpen- 
ed by frequent and sudden revolutions, which happened in their govern- 
ment. The genius of their government was entirely democratical ; their 
legislature consisted of the whole body of the people. They bad 
indeed a senate of five hundred ; but in the general convention of the 
citizens was placed the last resort ; and affairs were conducted there, 
altogether, by reasoning, speaking, and a skilful application to the pas- 
sions and interests of a popular assembly. There, laws were made, 



LECT. XXV.j GRECIAN ELOQUENCE, 33$ 

peace and war decreed, and thence the magistrates were chosen, For 
the highest honours of the state were alike open to all ; nor was the 
meanest tradesman excluded from a seat in their supreme courts. In 
such a state, eloquence, it is obvious, would be much studied as the 
surest means of rising to influence and power ; and what sort of elo- 
quence ? Not that which was brilliant merely, and showy, but that 
which was found upon trial to be most effectual for convincing, inter= 
esting, and persuading the hearers. For there, public speaking was not 
a mere competition for empty applause, but a serious contention for that 
public leading, which was the great object both of the men of ambition,, 
and the men of virtue. 

Among a nation so enlightened and acute, where the highest attention 
was paid to every thing elegant in the arts, we may naturally expect to 
find the public taste refined and judicious. Accordingly, it was improv- 
ed to such a degree, that the Attic taste and Attic manner have passed 
into a proverb. It is true, that ambitious demagogues, and corrupt ora- 
tors, did sometimes dazzle and mislead the people, by a showy but 
false eloquence : for the Athenians, with all their acuteness, were 
factious and giddy, and great admirers of every novelty. But when 
some important interest drew their attention, when any great danger 
roused them, and put their judgment to a serious trial, they commonly 
distinguished, very justly, between genuine and spurious eloquence ; 
and hence Demosthenes triumphed over all his opponents ; because he 
spoke always to the purpose, affected no insignificant parade of words ? 
used weighty arguments, and showed them clearly where their interest 
lay. In critical conjunctures of the state, when the public were alarmed 
with some pressing danger, when the people were assembled, and pro- 
clamation was made by the crier, for any one to rise and deliver his 
opinion upon the present situation of affairs, empty declamation and 
sophistical reasoning would not only have been hissed, but resented and 
punished by an assembly so intelligent and accustomed to business. 
Their greatest orators trembled on such occasions, when they rose to 
address the people, as they knew they were to be held answerable for 
the issue of the counsel which they gave. The most liberal endow- 
ments of the greatest princes never could found such a school for true 
oratory, as was formed by the nature of the Athenian republic. Elo- 
quence there sprung, native and vigorous, from amidst the contentions 
of faction and freedom, of public business and of active life ; and not 
from that retirement and speculation, which we are apt sometimes to 
fancy more favourable to eloquence than they are found to be. 

Pisistratus,who was contemporary with Solon, and subverted his plan 
of government, is mentioned by Plutarch, as the first who distinguished 
himself among the Athenians by application to the arts of speech. His 
ability in these arts he employed for raising himself to the sovereign 
power ; which, however, when he had attained it, he exercised with 
moderation. Of the orators who flourished between his time and the 
Peloponnesian war, no particular mention is made in history. Pericles 3 
who died about the beginning of that war, was properly the first who 
carried eloquence to a great height ; to such a height indeed, that it 
does not appear he was ever afterward surpassed. He was more than 
an orator ; he was also a statesman and a general ; expert in business, 
and of consummate address. For forty years he governed Athens 
with absolute sway ; and historians ascribe his influence, not more to 



^40 GRECIAN ELOQUENCE, [LECT. XXV, 

his political talents than to his eloquence, which was of that forcible and 
vehement kind, that bore every thing before it, and triumphed over the 
passions and affections of the people. Hence he had the surname of 
Olympias given him ; and it was said, that, like Jupiter, he thundered 
when he spoke. Though his ambition be liable to censure, yet great 
virtues certainly he had ; and it was the confidence which the people 
reposed in his integrity, that gave such a power to his eloquence ; a cir- 
cumstance, without which the influence of public speaking in a papular 
state can seldom go far. He appears to have been generous, magnani- 
mous, and public spirited ; he raised no fortune to himself; he expend- 
ed indeed great sums of the public money, but chiefly on public works ; 
and at his death is said to have valued himself principally on havingnever 
obliged any citizen to wear mourning on his account, during his long 
administration. It is a remarkable particular recorded of Pericles by 
Suidas, that he was the first Athenian who composed, and put into wri- 
ting, a discourse designed for the public. 

Posterior to Pericles, in the course of the Peloponnesian war, arose 
Cleon, Alcibiades, Critias, and Theramenas, eminent citizens of Athens, 
who were all distinguished for their eloquence. They were not orators 
by profession ; they were not formed by schools, but by a much more 
powerful education, that of business and debate ; where man sharpened 
man, and civil affairs carried on by public speaking, called forth every 
exertion of the mind. The manner or style of oratory which then pre- 
vailed, we learn from the orations in the history of Thucydides, who also 
nourished in the same age. It was manly, vehement, and concise, even 
to some degree of obscurity. " Grandes erant verbis," says Cicero, 
" crebri sententiis, compressione rerum breves, et, ob earn ipsam causam, 
interdum sub obscuri."* A manner very riifferent from what, in modern 
times, we would conceive to be the style of popular oratory ; and which 
tends to give a high idea of the acuteness of those audiences to which 
they spoke. 

The power of eloquence having, after the days of Pericles, become 
an object of greater consequence than ever, this gave birth to a set 
of men till then unknown, called rhetoricians, and sometimes sophists, 
who arose in multitudes during the Peloponnesian war ; such as Prota- 
goras, Prodicas, Thrasymus, and one who was more eminent than all 
the rest, Gorgias of Leontium. These sophists joined to their art of 
rhetoric a subtile logic, and were generally a sort of metaphysical skep- 
tics. Gorgias however, was a professed master of eloquence only. 
His reputation was prodigious. He was highly venerated in Leontium 
of Sicily, his native city ; and money was coined with his name upon it. 
In the latter part of his life, he established himself at Athens, and lived 
till he had attained^the age of 105 years. Mermogenes (de Ideis, 1. if. 
cap. 9.) has preserved a fragment of his, from which we see his style 
and manner. It is extremely quaint and artificial : full of antithesis and 
pointed expression ; and shows how far the Grecian subtilty had already 
carried the study of language. These rhetoricians did not content them- 
selves with delivering general instructions concerning eloquence to their 
pupils, and endeavouring to form their taste ; but they professed the art 
of giving them receipts for making all sorts of orations ; and of teaching 

* " They were magnificent in their expressions ; they abounded in thought ; they 
compressed their matter into few words, and, by their brevity, were sometimes 

obscure." 



t£CT. XXV, j GRECIAN ELOQUENCE, ^4! 

them how to speak for and against every cause whatever. Upon this 
plan, they were the first who treated of common places, and the artificial 
invention of arguments and topics for every subject. .In the hands of 
such men, we may easily believe that oratory would degenerate from the 
masculine strain it had hitherto held, and become a trifling and sophistical 
art ; and we may justly deem them the first corrupters of true eloquence. 
To them the great Socrates opposed himself. By a profound, but sim- 
ple reasoning peculiar to himself, he exploded their sophistry ; and 
endeavoured to recall men's attention from that abuse of reasoning and 
discourse which began to be in vogue, to natural laqguage, and sound and 
useful thought. 

In the same age, though somewhat later than the philosopher above 
mentioned, flourished Isocrates, whose writings are still extant. He 
was a professed rhetorician, and by teaching eloquence, he acquired both 
a great fortune, and higher fame than any of his rivals in that profes- 
sion. No contemptible orator he was. His orations are full of morali- 
ty and good sentiments ; they are flowing and smooth ; but too destitute 
of vigour. He never engaged in public affairs, nor pleaded causes ; 
and accordingly his orations are calculated only for the shade ; " Pompse,'' 
Cicero allows, " magis quam pugnae aptior ; ad voluptatem aurium ac- 
commodates potius quam ad judiciorum certamen."* The style of Gor- 
gias of Leontium was formed into short sentences, composed generally 
of two members balanced against each other. The style of Isocrates, 
on the contrary, is swelling and full ; and he is said to be the first 
who introduced the method of composing in regular periods, which 
had a studied music and harmonious cadence ; a manner which he 
has carried to a vicious excess. What shall we think of an orator, 
■who employed ten years in composing one discourse, still extant, en- 
titled the Panegyric ? How much frivolous care must have been be- 
stowed on all the minute elegance of words and sentences ? Dionysius 
of Halicarnassus has given us upon the orations of Isocrates, as also upon 
those of some other Greek orators, a full and regular treatise, which is, 
in my opinion, one of the most judicious pieces of ancient criticism extant, 
and very worthy of being consulted. He commends the splendour of 
Isocrates's style, and the morality of his sentiments ; but severely cen- 
sures his affectation, and the uniform regular cadence of all his sen- 
tences. He holds him to be a florid declaimer ; not a natural persua- 
sive speaker. Cicero, in his critical works, though he admits his fail- 
ings, yet discovers a propensity to be very favourable to that " plena 
ac numerosa oratio," that swelling and musical style which Isocrates in- 
troduced, and with the love of which, Cicero himself was, perhaps, 
somewhat infected. In one of his treatises (Orat. ad. M. Brut) he in- 
forms us, that his friend Brutus and he differed in this particular, and 
that Brutus found fault with his partiality to Isocrates. The manner of 
Isocrates generally catches young people, when they begin to attend to 
composition ; and it is very natural that it should do so. It gives them 
an idea of that regularity, cadence, and magnificence of style, which 
fills the ear : but when they come to write or speak for the world, they 
will find this ostentatious manner unfit, either for carrying on business s 
or commanding attention. It is said, that the high reputation of Iso» 

* " More fitted for show than for debate ; better calculated for the amusement of 
a public audience, than for judicial contests." 

H h 



DEMOSTHENES. '. LECT. XXV. 

crates, prompted Aristotle, who was nearly his contemporary, or lived 
but a little after him, to write his institutions of rhetoric ; which are 
indeed formed upon a plan of eloquence very different from that of 
Isocrates, and the rhetoricians of that time. He seems to have had it 
in view to direct the attention of orators much more towards convincing 
and affecting their hearers, than towards the musical cadence of periods. 

Isceus and Lysias, some of whose orations are preserved, belong also 
to this period. Lysias was somewhat earlier than Isocrates, and is the 
model of that manner which the ancients call the " Tenuis vel Subtilis." 
He has none of Isocrates's pomp. He is every where pure and attic in 
the highest degree ; simple and unaffected ; but wants force, and is 
sometimes frigid in his compositions.* Isseus is chiefly remarkable for 
being the master of the great Demosthenes, in whom, it must be ac- 
knowledged, eloquence shone forth with higher splendour, than perhaps 
in any that ever bore the name of an orator, and whose manner and cha- 
racter, therefore, must deserve our particular attention. 

I shall not spend anytime upon the circumstances of Demosthenes's 
life ; they are well known. The strong ambition which he discovered 
to excel in the art of speaking ; the unsuccessfulness of his first attempts ; 
his unwearied perseverance in surmounting all the disadvantages that 
arose from his person and address ; his shutting himself up in a cave, 
that he might study with less distraction : his declaiming by the sea shore, 
that he might accustom himself to the noise of a tumultuous assembly, 
and with pebbles in his mouth, that he might correct a defect in his 
speech ; his practising at home with a naked sword hanging over his 
shoulder that he might check an ungraceful motion, to which he was 
subject : all those circumstances, which we learn from Plutarch, are 

* In the judicious comparison, which Dionysius of Halicarnassus makes of the 
merits of Lysias and Isocrates, he ascribes to Lysias, as the distinguishing character 
of his manner, a certain grace or elegance arising from simplicity ; " ris^cxe yag w 
Avtis hifyc e%uv to Xagitv h J' Is-acgaTus fixAtrat." " The style^of Lysias has graceful- 
ness for its nature ; that of Isocrates seeks to have it." In the art of narration, a? 
distinct, probable, and persuasive, he holds Lysias to be superior to all orators •, at 
the same time, he admits that his composition is more adapted to private litigation 
than to great subjects. He convinces, but he does not elevate nor animate. The 
magnificence and splendour of Isocrates is more suited to great occasions. He is 
more agreeable than Lysias ; and, in dignity of sentiment, far excels him. With 
regard to the affectation which is visible in Isocrates's manner, he concludes what 
he says of it with the following excellent observations, which should never be for- 
gotten by any who aspire to be true orators : " T«s (aivtoi dymxvis tw ntetoSw to 
kvxkiov ml tm <7%i)/LiaTi<rfAu>v t«? teniae to ^s^skwN.c, ax iScKifAA^ov fyxtvu yag » fiavcia 
■xoKhaKis too gvBy.cc t;/s Mfs»s, kou th ko/u-^h htnriTcti <ra ahuSivoy. KgaTirov t i7riT»fev/ua. £V 

dlah.iU.TU> TTOAfTlKih X*l SyZyWlV, TO OfAOlOTOlTCV TC6 KXTCt, <$V!TIV. (ZxKVTlil St « <pV<rfg TO/ff VOM/UCl- 

<rtv nri<rBzi thv xs?w, a t» xt^u to. von ( uaTA au/^CaKo) it cT» 7rsgi -xoxtfjui Kctiugwus Aeyovlixai iS'ttoTH 

Toy TTSgl -^W%»? TgtyjJVTl KtvfvVCV iV eT/HSlS"**?, TO. K0y.'\>&, HAi QiATgiX.*., KAl (AllgS. KtOodn TaVTl bK, 

ot'Ja HTlvct 6uva.iT cty nctg&a-ofiiv ce^iKwxv' f/.ctWoy S'ciSa. oti zai /3asJ/3»s gv otiTtx ytvoiro. yetgttv- 
T/F/U.0S yog rasev o-srsox, xxi Kihcos yivopivcs, awgw Trgayy.a kai Trotepuna. tov thin." .Judic. 
de Isocrat. p. 558. '' His studied circumflexion of periods, and juvenile affectation 
of the flowei's of speech, [ do not approve. The thought is frequently made subser- 
vient to the music of the sentence ; and elegance is preferred to reason. Whereas, 
in every discourse where business and affairs are concerned, nature ought to be fol- 
lowed, and nature certainly dictates that the expression should be an object subor- 
dinate to the sense ; not the sense to the expression. When one rises to give public 
counsel concerning war and peace, or takes the charge of a private man, who is 
standing at the bar to be tried for li is life, those studied decorations, those theatrical 
graces and juveuile flowers are out of place. Instead of being of service they are 
detrimental to the cause we espouse. When the contest is of a serious kind, orna- 
ments, which at another time would have beauty, then lose their effect, and prove- 
hostile to the -affections which we wish to raise in our hearers." 



VT. XXV.] DEMOSTHENES. 343 

very encouraging to such as study eloquence, as they show how tap art 
and application may avail, for acquiring an excellence which nature 
seemed unwilling to grant us. 

Despising the affected and florid manner which the rhetoricians of 
that age followed, Demosthenes returned to the forcible and manly elo- 
quence of Pericles ; and strength and vehemence form the principal 
characteristics of his style. Never had orator a finer field than 
Demosthenes in his Olynthiacs and Philippics, which are his capital 
orations ; and, no doubt, to the nobleness of the subject, and to that 
integrity and public spirit which eminently breathe in them, they are 
indebted for much of their merit. The subject is to rouse the indigna- 
tion of his countrymen against Philip of Macedon, the public enemy of 
the liberties of Greece ; and to guard them against the insidious mea- 
sures, by which that crafty prince endeavoured to lay them asleep to 
danger. In the prosecution of this end, we see him taking every 
proper method to animate a people, renowned for justice, humanit}*-, and 
valour, but in many instances become corrupt and degenerate. He 
boldly taxes them with their venality, their indolence, and indifference 
to the public cause; while, at the same time, with all the art of an 
orator, he recalls the glory of their ancestors to their thoughts, shows 
them that they are still a flourishing and a powerful people, the natural 
protectors of the liberty of Greece, and who wanted only the inclination to 
exert themselves, in order to make Philip tremble. With his contem- 
porary orators, who were in Philip's interest, and who persuaded the 
people to peace, he keeps no measures, but plainly reproaches them as 
the betrayers of their country. He not only prompts to vigorous con- 
duct, but he lays down the plan of that conduct ; he enters into par- 
ticulars ; and points out, with great exactness, the measures of execu- 
tion. This is the strain of these orations. They are strongly ani- 
mated, and full of the impetuosity and fire of public spirit. They 
proceed in a continued train of inductions, consequences, and demon- 
strations, founded on sound reason. The figures which he uses, are 
never sought after ; but always rise from the subject. He employs 
them sparingly indeed ; for splendour and ornament are not the dis- 
tinctions of this orator's composition. It is an energy of thought peculiar 
to himself, which forms his character, and sets him above all others. 
He appears to attend much more to things than to words. We forget 
the orator, and think of the business. He warms the mind, and impels 
to action. He has no parade and ostentation ; no method of insinua- 
tion ; no laboured introductions ; but is like a man full of his subject, 
who, after preparing his audience by a sentence or two for hearing plain 
truths, enters directly on business. 

Demosthenes appears to great advantage, when contrasted with 
iEschines in the celebrated oration " pro Corona." JEschines was 
his rival in business, and personal enemy ; and one of the most dis- 
tinguished orators of that age. But when we read the two orations, 
iEschines is feeble in comparison of Demosthenes, and makes much less 
impressiomon the mind. His reasonings concerning the law that wasin 
question, are indeed very subtile : but his invective against Demosthenes 
is general and ill supported. Whereas, Demosthenes is a torrent, that 
nothing can resist. He bears down his antagonist with violence ; he < 
draws his character in the strongest colours ; and the particular merit 
of that oration is, that all the descriptions in it are highly picturesque. 
There runs through it a strain of magnanimity and high honour : the 



244 HISTORY OF ELOQUENCE. [LECT. XXVI. 

orator speaks with that strength and conscious dignity which great ac- 
tions and public spirit alone inspire. Both orators use great liberties 
with one another ; and, in general, that unrestrained license which 
ancient manners permitted, even to the length of abusive names and 
downright scurrility, as appears both here and in Cicero's Philippics, 
hurts and offends a modern ear. What those ancient orators gained by 
such a manner in point of freedom and boldness, is more than compen- 
sated by want of dignity ; which seems to give an advantage, in this 
respect, to the greater decency of modern speaking. 

The style of Demosthenes is strong and concise, though sometimes, 
it must not be dissembled, harsh and abrupt. His words are very 
expressive ; his arrangement is firm and manly ; and though far from 
being unmusical, yet it seems difficult to find in him that studied, but 
concealed number, and rhythmus, which some of the ancient critics are 
fond of attributing to him. Negligent of these lesser graces, one would 
rather conceive him to have aimed at that sublime which lies in senti- 
ment. His action and pronunciation are recorded to have been uncom- 
monly vehement and ardent ; which, from the manner of his composition, 
we are naturally led to believe. The character which one forms of 
him, from reading his works, is of the austere, rather than the gentle 
kind. He is on every occasion grave, serious, passionate ; takes every 
thing on a high tone ; never lets himself down, nor attempts any thing 
like pleasantry. If any fault can be found with his admirable eloquence, 
it is, that he sometimes borders on the hard and dry. He may be 
thought to want smoothness and grace ; which Dionysius of Halicarnassus 
attributes to his imitating too closely the manner of Thucydides, who 
was his great model for style, and whose history he is said to have 
written eight times over with his own hand. But these defects are far 
more than compensated, by that admirable and masterly force of mas- 
culine eloquence, which, as it overpowered all who heard it, cannot, 
at this day, be read without emotion. 

After the days of Demosthenes, Greece lost her liberty, eloquence of 
course languished, and relapsed again into the feeble manner introduced 
by the rhetoricians and sophists. Demetrius Phalerius, who livedin the 
next age to Demosthenes, attained indeed some character, but he is 
represented to us as a flowery, rather than a persuasive speaker, who 
aimed at grace rather than substance. " Delectabat Athenienses," says 
Cicero, " magis quam inflammabat." " He amused the Athenians, rather 
than warmed them." And after his time, we hear of no more Grecian 
orators of any note. 



LECTURE XXVI. 



HISTORY OF ELOQUENCE CONTTNUED....ROMAN ELOQUENCE.... 
CICERO....MODERN ELOQUENCE. 

Having treated of the rise of eloquence, and of its state among the 
Greeks, we now proceed to consider its progress among the Romans, 
where we shall find one model, at least, of eloquence, in its most splendid 



L'ECT. XXVI.] HISTORY OF ELOQUENCE, ^4'$ 

and illustrious form. The Romans were long a martial nation, altogether 
Fude and unskilled in arts of any kind. Arts were of late introduced 
among them : they were not known till after the conquest of Greece ; 
and the Romans always acknowledged the Grecians as their masters in 
every part of learning: 

Grecia capta ferum victorem cepit, et artes 

Intulit agresti Latio.* Hor. Epist. ad. Aug. 

As the Romans derived their eloquence, poetry, and learning from the 
Greeks, so they must be confessed to be far inferior to them in genius 
for all these accomplishments. They were a more grave and magnifi- 
cent, but a less acute and sprightly people. They had neither the viva- 
city nor the sensibility of the Greeks : their passions were not so easily 
moved, nor their conceptions so lively ; in comparison of them, they 
were a phlegmatic nation. Their language resembled their character ; 
it was regular, firm, and stately ; but wanted that simple and expressive 
naivete, and, in particular, that flexibility to suit every different mode 
and species of composition, for which the Greek tongue is distinguished 
above that of every other country. 

Graiis ingenium, Graiis dedit ore rotundo 

Musa loquit Ars. Poet. 

And hence, when we compare together the various rival productions 
of Greece and Rome, we shall always find this distinction obtain, that in 
the Greek productions there is more native genius ; in the Roman 
more regularity and art. What the Greeks invented, the Romans po- 
lished ; the one was the original, rough sometimes, and incorrect ; the 
other, a finished copy. 

As the Roman government, during the republic, was of the popular 
kind, there is no doubt but that, in the hands of the leading men, public 
speaking became early an engine of government, and was employed 
for gaining distinction and power. But in the rude unpolished times of 
the state, their speaking was hardly of that sort that could be called 
eloquence. Though Cicero, in his Treatise, " De Claris Oratoribus," 
endeavours to give some reputation to the elder Cato, and those who 
were his contemporaries, yet he acknowledges it to have been " Asperum 
et horridum genus dicendi," a rude and harsh strain of speech. It was 
not till a short time preceding Cicero's age, that the Roman orators rose 
into any note. Crassus and Antonius, two of the speakers in the 
dialogue De Oratore, appeared to have been the most eminent, whose 
different manners Cicero describes with great beauty in that dialogue, 
and in his other rhetorical works. But as none of their productions 
are extant, nor any of Hortensius's, who was Cicero's contemporary and 
rival at the bar, it is needless to transcribe from Cicero's writings the 
account which he gives of those great men, and of the character of their 
eloquence.^ 

* When conquer'd Greece brought in her captive arts, 
She triumph'd o'er her savage conquerors' hearts ; 
Taught our rough .verse its numbers to refine, 
And our rude style with elegance to shine. Francis. 

t To her lov'd Greeks the muse indulgent gave, 
To her lov'd Greeks with greatness to conceive ; 
And in sublimer tone their language raise : 
Her Greeks were only covetous of praise. Francis. 

4 : Such as are desirous of particular information on this head, had better have 



2 46 CICERO, jl.XXVi 

The object in this period, most worthy to draw our attention, is Cicero 
himself ; whose name alone suggests every thing that is splendid in 
oratory. With the history of his life, and with his character, as a man 
and a politician, we have not at present any direct concern. We con- 
sider him only as an eloquent speaker ; and in this view it is our business 
to remark both his virtues and his defects, if he has any. His virtues 
are, beyond controversy, eminently great. In all his orations there is 
high art. He begins, generally, with a regular exordium ; and with 
much preparation and insinuation prepossesses the hearers, and studies 
to gain their affections. His method is clear and his arguments are 
arranged with great propriety. His method is indeed more clear than 
that of Demosthenes ; and this is one advantage which he has over him. 
We find every thing in its proper place ; he never attempts to move, 
till he has endeavoured to convince : and in moving, especially the 
softer passions, he is very successful. No man that ever wrote, knew 
the power and force of words better than Cicero. He rolls them along 
with the greatest beauty and pomp ; and, in the structure of his senten- 
ces, is curious and exact to the highest degree. He is always full and 
flowing, never abrupt. He is a great amplifier of every subject : mag- 
nificent, and in his sentiments highly moral. His manner is on the whole 
diffuse, yet it often happily varied, and suited to the subject. In his 
four orations, for instance, against Catiline, the tone and style of each 
of them, particularly the first and last, is very different, and accommo- 
dated with a great deal of judgment to the occasion, and the situation 
in which they were spoken. When a great public object roused his 
mind, and demanded indignation and force, he departs considerably from 
that loose and declamatory manner to which he leans at other times, and 
becomes exceedingly cogent and vehement. This is the case in his 
orations against Anthony, and in those two against Verres and Catiline. 

Together with those high qualities which Cicero possesses, he is not 
exempt from certain defects, of which it is necessary to take notice. 
For the Ciceronian eloquence is a pattern so dazzling by its beauties, 
that if not examined with accuracy and judgment, it is apt to betray the 
unwary into a faulty imitation ; and I am of opinion, that it has some- 
times produced this effect. In most of his orations, especially those 
composed in the earlier part of his life, there is too much art ; even 
carried the length of ostentation. There is too visible a parade of elo- 
quence. He seems often io aim at obtaining admiration, rather than at 
operating conviction, by what he says. Hence, on some occasions, he is 
showy rather than solid ; and diffuse, where he ought to have been 
pressing. His sentences are, at all times, round and sonorous; they cannot 
be accused of monotony, for they possess variety of cadence ; but, 
from too great a study of magnificence, he is sometimes deficient in 
strength. On all occasions, where there is the least room for it, he is 
full of himself. His great actions, and the real services which he had 
performed to his country, apologized for this in part ; ancient manners, 
too, imposed fewer restraints from the side of decorum ; but, evenaiter 
these allowances made, Cicero's ostentation of himself cannot be wholly 
palliated ; and his orations, indeed all his works, leave on our minds the 
impression of a good man, but withal, of a vain man. 

recourse to the original, by reading Cicero's three books De Oratore, and his other 
two treatises entitled, the one Brutus, Sive de Claris Oratoribus.; the other, Orator 
ad M. Brutum ; wbich, on several accounts? well deserve perusal. 



I 



LECT. XXVI.] CICERO AND DEMOSTHEM.:;. 047 



The defects which we have now taken notice of in Cicero's elo- 
quence, were not unobserved by his own contemporaries. This we 
learn from Quintilian, and from the author of the dialogue, " de Causis 
Corrupts Eloquential." Brutus, we are informed, called him," fractum, 
et elumbem," broken and enervated. " Suorum temporem homines," 
says Quintilian, '" incessere audebant eum ut tumidiorem et Asianum, et 
redundantem, et in repetitionibus nimium, et in salibus aliquando frigi- 
dum, et in compositione fractum et exsultantem, et pene viro mollio- 
rem."* These censures were undoubtedly carried too far ; and savour 
of malignity and personal enmity. They saw his defects, but they 
aggravated them ; and the source of tbese aggravations can be traced 
to the difference which prevailed in Rome, m Cicero's days, between 
two great parties, with respect to eloquence. The " Attici," and the 
<s Asiani." The former, who call themselves the Attics, were the patrons 
of what they conceived to be the chaste, simple, and natural style of 
eloquence : from which they accused Cicero as having departed, and 
as leaning to the florid Asiatic manner. In several of his rhetorical 
works, particularly in his '* Orator id Brutum," Cicero, in his turn, 
endeavours to expose this sect, as substituting a frigid and jejune man- 
ner, in place of the true Attic eloquence ; and contends, that his own 
composition was formed upon the real Attic style. In the 10th chapter 
of the last book of Quintilian's Institutions, a full account is given of 
the disputes between these two parties ; and of the Rhodian, or middle 
manner between the Attics and the Asiatics. Quintilian himself de- 
clares on Cicero's side : and, whether it be called Attic or Asiatic, pre- 
fers the full, the copious, and the amplifying style. He concludes with 
this very just observation ; " Plures sunt eloquentiae tacies ; sed stul- 
tissimum est quaerere, ad quam recturus se sit orator ; cum ornnis spe- 
cies, quae modo recta est, habeat usum. Utetur enim, ut res exiget, 
omnibus ; nee pro causa modo, sed pro partibus ; causae. "t 

On the subject of comparing Cicero and Demosthenes, much has been 
said by critical writers. The different manners of these two princes of 
eloquence, and the distinguishing characters of each, are so strongly 
marked in their writings, that the comparison is in many respects obvi- 
ous and easy. The character of Demosthenes is vigour and austerity ; 
that of Cicero is gentleness and insinuation. In the one, you find more 
manliness ; in the other, more ornament. The one is more harsh, but 
more spirited and cogent ; the other more agreeable, but withal looser 
and weaker. 

To account for this difference without any prejudice to Cicero, it 
has been said that we must look to the nature of their different audito- 
ries ; that the refined Athenians followed with ease the concise and 
convincing eloquence of Demosthenes : but that a manner more popu- 
lar, more flowery, and declamatory, was requisite in speaking to the 
Romans, a people less acute, and less acquainted with the arts of speech. 
But this is not satisfactory. For we must observe, that the Greek ora- 

* "His contemporaries ventured to reproach him as swelling, redundant, and 
Asiatic ; too frequent in repetitions ; in his attempts towards wit sometimes cold ; 
and in the strain of his composition, feeble, desultory, and more effeminate than 
became a man." 

i " Eloquence admits of many different forms : and nothing can be more foolish 
than to inquire, by which of them an orator is to regulate his composition ; since 
every form, which is in itself just, has its own place and use The orator, according 
as circumstances require, will employ them all ; suiting them not only to the cause 
' • subject of which he treats, but to the different parts of that subjecf." 



c?48 CICERO AND DEMOSTHENES [LECT. XXvf 

tor spoke much oftener before a mixed multitude, than the Romans. Al- 
most all the public business of Athens was transacted in popular assem- 
blies. The common people were his hearers and his judges. Whereas 
Cicero generally addressed himself to the " Patres Conscripti," or in 
criminal trials to the Praetor, and the select judges ; and it cannot be 
imagined, that the persons of highest rank, and best education in Rome, 
required a more diffuse manner of pleading than the common citizens 
of Athens, in order to make them understand the cause, or relish the 
speaker. Perhaps-we shall come nearer the truth, by observing, that 
to unite together all the qualities, without the least exception, that form 
a perfect orator, and to excel equally in each of those qualities is not 
to be expected from the limited powers of human genius. The highest 
degree of strength is, I suspect, never found united with the highest de- 
gree of smoothness and ornament ; equal attentions to both are incom- 
patible ; and the genius that carries ornament to its utmost length, is not 
of such a kind, as can excel as much in vigour. For there plainly lies 
the characteristical difference between these two celebrated orators. 

It is a disadvantage to Demosthenes, that besides his conciseness, 
which sometimes produces obscurity, the language, in which he writes . 
is less familiar to most of us than the Latin, and that we are less 
acquainted with the Greek antiquities than we are with the Ptoman. 
We read Cicero with more ease, and of course with more pleasure. 
Independent of this circumstance too, he is, no doubt, in himself, a more 
agreeable writer than the other. But notwithstanding this advantage, 
I am of opinion, that were the state in danger, or some great national in- 
terest at stake, which drew the serious attention of men, an oration in 
the spirit and strain of Demosthenes, would have more weight, and 
produce greater effects than one in the Ciceronian manner. Were 
Demosthenes's Philippics spoken in a British assembly, in a similar con- 
juncture of affairs, they would convince and persuade at this day. The 
rapid style, the vehement reasoning, the disdain, anger, boldness, free- 
dom, which perpetually animate them, would render their success infal- 
lible over any modern assembly. I question whether the same can be 
said of Cicero's orations ; whose eloquence, however beautiful, and 
however well suited to the Roman taste, yet borders oftener on decla- 
mation, and is more remote from the manner in which we now expect 
to hear real business and causes of importance treated.* 

In comparing Demosthenes and Cicero, most of the French critics 
incline to give the preference to the latter. P. Rapin the Jesuit, in the 
parallels which he has drawn between some of the most eminent 
Greek and Roman writers, uniformly decides in favour of the Roman. 
For the preference which he gives to Cicero, he assigns, and lays stress 
on one reason of a pretty extraordinary nature ; viz. that Demos- 
thenes could not possibly have so complete an insight as Cicero into the 
manners and passions of men : W r hy ? — Because he had not the advan- 
tage of perusing Aristotle's Treatise of Rhetoric; wherein, says our 
critic, he has fully laid open that mystery ; and, to support this weighty 
arguraent, he enters into a controversy with A. Gellius, in order to 
prove that Aristotle's Rhetoric was not published till after Demosthenes 

* In this judgment I concur with Mr. David Hume, in his Essay upon Eloquence, 
He gives it as his opinion that of all human productions, the orations of Demos- 
thenes present to us the models which approach the nearest to perfection. 



mi 



1 



LECT. XXVI.] DECAY OF ROMAN ELOQUENCE. 343 

had spoken, at least, his most considerable orations. Nothing can be 
more childish. Such orators as Cicero and Demosthenes, derived their 
knowledge of the human passions, and their power of moving them, from 
higher sources than any treatise of rhetoric. One French critic has in- 
deed departed from the common track ; and, after bestowing on Cicero 
those just praises to which the consent of so many ages shows him to 
be entitled, concludes, however, with giving the palm to Demosthenes. 
This is Fenelon, the famous archbishop of Cambray, and author of 
Telemachus ; himself surely no enemy to all the graces and flowers of 
composition. It is in his Reflections on Rhetoric and Poetry, that he 
gives this judgment ; a small tract, commonly published along with his 
Dialogues on Eloquence.* These dialogues and reflections are particu- 
larly worthy of perusal, as containing, I think, the justest ideas on the 
subject, that are to be met with in any modern critical writer. 

The reign of eloquence, among the Romans, was very short. After 
the age of Cicero, it languished, or rather expired ; and we have no 
reason to wonder at this being the case. For not only was liberty 
entirely extinguished, but arbitrary power felt in its heaviest and most 
oppressive weight ; Providence having, in its wrath, delivered over the 
Roman empire to a succession of some of the most execrable tyrants 
that ever disgraced and scourged the human race. Under their go- 
vernment, it was naturally to be expected that taste would be corrupted, 
and genius discouraged. Some of the ornamental arts, less intimately 
connected with liberty, continued for a while to prevail ; but for that 
masculine eloquence, which had exercised itself in the senate, and in 
the public affairs, there was no longer any place. The change that was 
produced on eloquence, by the nature of the government, and the state 
of the public manners, is beautifully described in the Dialogue de Causis, 
corruptae Eloquentas, which is attributed, by some, to Tacitus, by others, 
to Quintilian. Luxury, effeminacy, and flattery, overwhelmed all. 
The forum, where so many great affairs had been transacted, was now 
become a desert. Private causes were still pleaded ; but the public 
was no longer interested ; nor any general attention drawn to what pass- 
ed there : " Unus inter haec, et alter, dicenti, assistit; et res velut in 
solitudine agitur. Oratori autem clamore plausuque opus est, et velut 
quodam theatro, qualia quotidie antiquis oratoribus contingebant ; cum 
tot ac tam nobiles forum coarctarent ; cum clientele, et tribus, et muni- 

* As his expressions are remarkably happy and beautiful, the passage nere refer- 
red to deserves to be inserted. " Je ne crains pas dire, que Demosthene me paroit 
superieur a. CicerOn. Je proteste que personne n'admire plus Ciceron, que je fais. 
II embellit tout ce qu'il touche. II fait honneur a la parole. II fait des mots ce 
qu'un autre n'en sauroit faire. II a je ne sai combien de sortis d'esprits. II est meme 
court, et vehement, toutes les fois qu'il veut I'etre ; contre Catiline, eontre Verres, 
contre Antoine. Mais on remarque quelque parure dans sons diseours. L'art y est 
merveil leux ; mats on l'entrevoit. L'orateur en pensant au salut de la republique, 
ne s'oublie pas et ne se laisse pas oublier. Demosthene paroit sortir de soi, et ne 
voir que la patrie. II ne cherche point le beau ; II le fait, sans y penser. II est au- 
dessus de l'admiration. II se sert de !a parole, comme un homme modeste de son 
habit, pour se couvrir. II tonne ; il foudroye. C'est un torrent qui entraine tout. 
On ne peut le critiquer, parcequ'on est saisi. On pense aux choses qu'il dit, et non 
a-ses paroles. On le perd de vue. On n'est occupe que de Philippe qui envahit 
tout. Je suis charme de ces deux orateurs : mais j'avoue que je suis moins touche 
de l'art infini, et de la magnifique eloquence de Ciceron que de la rapide simplicity 
jde Demosthene." 

It 



2^0 DjSCAY OF ROMAN ELOQUENCE. \lMt% XXV< 

cipiorum legationes, periclitantibus assisterent ; cum in plerisque juch 
ciis crederet populus Romanus sua interesse quid judicaretur."* 

In the schools of the declaimers, the corruption of eloquence was com- 
pleted. Imaginary and fantastic subjects, such as had no reference to real 
life, or business, were made the themes of declamation ; and all manner of 
false and affected ornaments were brought into vogue ; " Pace vestrali- 
ceat dixisse," says Petronius Arbiter, to the declaimers of his time, "pri- 
mi omnem eloquentiam perdidistis. Levibus enim ac inanibus sonis lu- 
dibria quaedam excitando, effecistis ut corpus orationis enervaretur atque 
caderet. Et ideo ego existioio adolescentulos in scholis stultissimos fie- 
ri, quia nihil ex iis, quae in usu habemus, aut audiunt, aut vident ; sed pi- 
ratas cum catenis in littore stantes ; et tyrannos edicta scribentes quibus 
imperent filiis ut patrum suorum capita praecidant ; sed responsa, in pes- 
tilentia data, ut virgines tres aut plures immolentur ; sed mellitos verbo- 
rum globulos, et omnia quasi papavere, et sesamo sparsa. Qui inter haec 
nutriuntur, non magis sapere possunt, quam bene olere qui in culina habi- 
tant."f In the hands of the Greek rhetoricians, the manly and sensible 
eloquence of their first noted speakers, degenerated, as I formerly show- 
ed, into subtilty and sophistry ; in the hands of the Roman declaimers. 
it passed into the quaint and affected ; into point and antithesis. This 
corrupt manner begins to appear in the writings of Seneca : and shows 
itself, also, in the famous panegyric of Pliny the Younger on Trajan, 
which may be considered as the last effort of Roman oratory. Though 
the author was a man of genius, yet it is deficient in nature and ease. 
We see throughout the whole, a perpetual attempt to depart from the 
ordinary way of thinking, and to support a forced elevation. 

In the decline of the Roman empire, the introduction of Christianity 
gave rise to a new species of eloquence, in the apologies, sermons, and 
pastoral writings of the fathers of the church. Among the Latin 
Fathers, Lactantius and Minutius Felix are the most remarkable for 
purity of style ; and in a later age, the famous St. Augustine possesses 
a considerable share of sprightliness and strength. But none of the 
Fathers afford any just models of eloquence. Their language, as soon 
as we descend to the third or fourth century, becomes harsh ; and they 
are, in general, infected with the taste of that age, a love of swoln and 
strained thoughts, and of the play of words. Among the Greek Fathers 
the most distinguished, by far, for his oratorial merit, is St. Chrysostom. 

* " The courts of judicature are, at present, so unfrequented that the orator seem s 
to stand alone, and talk to bare walls. But eloquence rejoices in the bursts of loud 
applause, and exults in a full audience ; such as used to press round the ancient 
orators, when the forum stood crowded with nobles ; when a numerous retinue of 
clients, when foreign ambassadors, when tribes, and whole cities assisted at the 
debate ; and when, in many trials, the Roman people understood themselves to be 
concerned in the event." 

-r " With your permission, T must be allowed to say, that you have been the first 
destroyers of all true eloquence. For, by those mock subjects on which you employ 
your empty and unmeaning compositions, you have enervated and overthrown all 
that is manly and substantial in oratory. I cannot but conclude, that the youth 
whom you educate, must be totally perverted in your schools, by hearing anr! 
seeing nothing which has any affinity to real life, or human affairs ; but stories of 
pirates standing on the shore provided with chains for loading their captives, and of 
tyrants issuing their edicts, by which children are commanded to cut off the heads 
of their parents ; but responses given by oracles in the time of pestilence, that 
several virgins must be sacrificed ; but glittering ornaments of phrase, and a style 
highly spiced, if we may say so, with affected conceits. They who are educated in 
the midst of such studies, can no more acquire a good taste, than they can smell 
weet who dwell perpetually in a kitchen." 



am 



2T.XXVI.J MODERN ELOQUENCE 351 

His language is pare ; bis style highly figured. He is copious, smooth, 
and sometimes pathetic. But he retains, at the same time, much of that 
character which has been always attributed to the Asiatic eloquence, dif- 
fuse and redundant to a great degree, and often overwrought and tumid. 
He may be read, however, with advantage, for the eloquence of the 
pulpit, as being freer from false ornaments than the Latin Fathers. 

As there is nothing more that occurs to me, deserving particular 
attention in the middle age, I pass now to the state of eloquence in 
modern times. Here it must be confessed, that, in no European na- 
tion, public speaking has been considered as so great an object, or been 
cultivated with so much care, as in Greece or Rome. Its reputation has 
never been so high ; its effects have never been so considerable : nor 
has that high and sublime kind of it, which prevailed in those ancient 
states, been so much as aimed at : notwithstanding too, that a new pro- 
fession has been established, which gives peculiar advantages to oratory, 
and affords it the noblest field ; I mean that of the church. The genius 
of the world seems, in this respect, to have undergone some alteration. 
The two countries where we might expect to find most of the spirit of 
eloquence, are France and Great Britain : France on account of the 
distinguished turn of the nation towards all the liberal arts, and of the 
encouragement which, for this century past, these arts have received 
from the public ; Great Britain, on account both of the public capacity 
and genius, and of the free government which it enjoys. Yet so it is, 
that in neither of those countries, has the talent of public speaking- 
risen near to the degree of its ancient splendour ; while in other produc- 
tions of genius, both in prose and in poetry, they have contended for the 
prize with Greece and Rome ; nay, in some compositions, may be 
thought to have surpassed them : the names of Demosthenes and Cicero 
stand, at this day, unrivalled in fame ; and it would be held presumptu- 
ous and absurd to pretend to place any modern whatever in the same, or 
even in a nearly equal rank. 

It seems particularly surprising, that Great Britain should not have 
made a more conspicuous figure in eloquence than it has hitherto 
attained ; when we consider the enlightened, and, at the same time, the 
free and bold genius of the country, which seems not a little to favour 
oratory ; and when we consider that, of all the polite nations, it alone 
possesses a popular government, or admits into the legislature, such nu- 
merous assemblies as can be supposed to lie under the dominion if 
eloquence.* Notwithstanding this advantage, it must be confessed that 
in most parts of eloquence, we are undoubtedly inferior, not only to the 
Greeks and Romans by many degrees, but also to the French. We 
have philosophers, eminent and conspicuous, perhaps, beyond any 
nation, in every branch of science. We have both taste and erudition, 
in a high degree. We have historians, we have poets of the greatest 
name ; but of orators, or public speakers, how little have we to boast ! 
And where are the monuments of their genius to be found ? In every 
period we have had some who made a figure, by managing the debates 

* Mr. Hume, in his Essay on Eloquence, makes this observation, and illustrates 
it with his usual elegance. He, indeed, supposes, that no satisfactory reasons can 
be given to account for the inferiority of modern to ancient eloquence. In this, I 
differ from him, and shall endeavour, before the conclusion of this lecture, to point 
out some causes to which, 1 think, it may in a great measure be ascribed, in the 
♦hree great scenes of public speaking. 



MODERN ELOQUENCE. LECT. XXVI. 

» \j ■- • I- 

in parliament : but that figure was commonly owing to their wisdom, or 
their experience in business, more than to their talents for oratory ; and 
unless in some few instances, wherein the power of oratory has appear- 
ed, indeed, with much lustre, the art of parliamentary speaking rather 
obtained to several, a temporary applause, than conferred upon any a 
lasting renown. At the bar, though questionless we have many able 
pleaders, yet few or none of their pleadings have been thought worthy 
to be transmitted to posterity ; or have commanded attention, any 
longer than the cause which was the subject of them interested the 
public ; while in France, the pleadings of Patru, in the former age, 
and those of Couching and D'Aguesseau, in later times, are read with 
pleasure, and are often quoted as examples of eloquence by the French 
critics. In the same manner, in the pulpit, the British divines have dis- 
tinguished themselves by the most accurate and rational compositions 
which, perhaps, any nation can boast of. Many printed sermons we 
have, full of good sense, and of sound divinity and morality ; but the 
eloquence to be found in them, the power of persuasion, of interesting 
and engaging the heart, which is, or ought to be, the great object of 
the pulpit, is far from bearing a suitable proportion to the excellence 
of the matter. There are few arts, in my opinion, farther from per- 
fection, than that of preaching is among us ; the reasons of which, I 
shall afterward have occasion to discuss : in proof of the fact, it i? 
sufficient to observe, that an English sermon, instead of being a persua- 
sive animated oration, seldom rises beyond the strain of correct and dry 
reasoning. Whereas, in the sermons of Bossuet, Massillon, Bourdaloue, 
and Flechier, among the French, we see a much higher species of elo- 
quence aimed at, and in a great measure attained, than the British 
preachers have in view. 

In general, the characteristical difference between the state of elo- 
quence in France and in Great Britain is, that the French have adopted 
higher ideas both of pleasing and persuading by means of oratory, though, 
sometimes, in the execution, they fail. In Great Britain, we have taken 
up eloquence on a lower key ; but in our execution, as was naturally to 
be expected, have been more correct. In France, the style of their 
orators is ornamented with bolder figures ; and their discourse carried 
on with more amplification, more warmth and elevation. The composi- 
tion is often very beautiful ; but sometimes, also, too diffuse, and deficient 
in that strength and cogency which renders eloquence powerful ; a de- 
fect owing, perhaps, in part, to the genius of the people, which leads 
them to attend fully as much to ornament as to substance ; and, in part, 
to the nature of their government, which by excluding public speaking 
from having much influence on the conduct of public affairs, deprives 
eloquence of its best opportunity for acquiring nerves and strength. 
Hence the pulpit is the principal field which is ieft for their eloquence. 
The members, too, of the French academy give harangues at their 
admission, in which genius often appears ; but labouring under the 
misfortune of having no subject to discourse upon, they run commonly 
into flattery and panegyric, the most barren and insipid of all topics. 

I observed before, that the Greeks and Romans aspired to a more 
sublime species of eloquence, than is aimed at by the moderns. Theirs 
was of the vehement and passionate kind, by which they endeavoured 
to inflame the minds of their hearers, and hurry their imaginations 
away ; and suitable to this vehemence of thought was their vehemence 



LECT. XXVI,] MODERN ELOQUENCE. 253 

of gesture and action ; the " supplosio pedis, "* the " percussio frontis 
et femoris,"* were, as we learn from Cicero's writings, usual gestures 
among them at the bar ; though now they would be reckoned extrava- 
gant any where, except upon the stage. Modern eloquence is much 
more cool and temperate ; and in Great Britain especially, has confined 
itself almost wholly to the argumentative and rational. It is much of 
that species which the ancient critics called the ** Tenuis," or " Subtilis ; ,s 
which aims at convincing and instructing, rather than affecting the pas- 
sions, and assumes a tone not much higher than common argument and 
discourse. 

Several reasons may be given, why modern eloquence has been so 
limited and humble in its efforts. In the first place, I am of opinion, 
that this change must, in part, be ascribed to that correct turn of 
thinking, which has been so much studied in modern times. It can 
hardly be doubted, that, in many efforts of mere genius, the ancient 
Greeks and Romans excelled us ; but, on the other hand, that, in accu- 
racy and closeness of reasoning on many subjects, we have some advan- 
tage over them, ought, I think, to be admitted also. In proportion as 
the world has advanced, philosophy has made greater progress. A 
certain strictness of good sense has, in this island particularly, been cul- 
tivated, and introduced into every subject. Hence we are more on our 
guard against the flowers of elocution ; we are now on the watch ; 
we are jealous of being deceived by oratory. Our public speakers are 
obliged to be more reserved than the ancients, in their attempts to 
elevate the imagination, and warm the passions ; and by the influence 
of prevailing taste, their own genius is sobered and chastened, perhaps, 
in too great a degree. It is likely too, I «onfess, that what we fondly 
ascribe to our correctness and good sense, is owing in a great measure, 
to our phlegm and natural coldness. For the vivacity and sensibility of 
the Greeks and Romans, more especially of the former, seem to have 
been much greater than ours, and to have given them a higher relish 
of all the beauties of oratory. 

Besides these national considerations, we must, in the next place, attend 
to peculiar circumstances in the three great scenes of public speaking, 
which have proved disadvantageous to the growth of eloquence among 
us. Though the parliament of Great Britain be the noblest field which 
Europe, at this day, affords to a public speak er, yet eloquence has never 
been so powerful an instrument there, as it was in the popular assem- 
blies of Greece and Rome. Under some former reigns, the high hand 
of arbitrary power bore a violent sway ; and in later times, ministerial 
influence has generally prevailed. The power of speaking, though 
always considerable, yet has been often found too feeble to counterba- 
lance either of these ; and, of course, has not been studied with so 
much zeal and fervour, as where its effect on business was irresistible 
and certain. 

At the bar, our disadvantage, in comparison of the ancients, is great. 
Among them, the judges were generally numerous ; the laws were few 
and simple ; the decision of causes was left, in a great measure, to 
equity and the sense of mankind. Here was an ample field for what 
they termed judicial eloquence. But among the moderns, the case is 
quite altered. The system of law is become much more complicated, 

* Vide De Clar. Orator, 



2o± MODERN ELOQUENCE. [LEOT. XXVi. 

The knowledge of it is thereby rendered so laborious an attainment, 
as to be the chief object of a lawyer's education, and in a manner, the 
study of his life. The art of speaking is but a secondary accomplish- 
ment, to which he can afford to devote much less of his time and labour, 
The bounds of eloquence, besides, are now much circumscribed at the 
bar ; and, except in a few cases, reduced to arguing from strict law, 
statute, or precedent, by which means knowledge, much more than 
oratory, is become the principal requisite. 

With regard to the pulpit, it has certainly been a great disadvantage, 
that the practice of reading sermons, instead of repeating them from 
memory, has prevailed so universally in England. This may, indeed, 
have introduced accuracy ; but it has done great prejudice to eloquence ; 
for a discourse read is far inferior to an oration spoken. It leads to a 
different sort of composition, as well as of delivery ; and can never have 
an equal effect upon any audience. Another circumstance, too, has been 
unfortunate. The sectaries and fanatics, before the Restoration, adopt- 
ed a warm, zealous, and popular manner of preaching ; and those who 
adhered to them, in after times, continued to distinguish themselves by 
somewhat of the same manner. The odium of these sects drove the 
established church from that warmth which they were judge'd to have 
carried too far, into the opposite extreme of a studied coolness, and com- 
posure of manner. Hence, from that of persuasion, which preaching 
ought always to be, it has passed, in England, into mere reasoning and 
instruction ; which not only has brought down the eloquence of the pulpit 
to a lower tone than it might justly assume ; but has produced this far- 
ther effect, that, by accustoming the public ear to such cool and dispas- 
sionate discourses, it has tended to fashion other kinds of public speaking 
upon the same model. 

Thus I have given some view of the state of eloquence in modern 
times, and endeavoured to account for it. It has, as we have seen, 
fallen below that splendour which it maintained in ancient ages ; and from 
being sublime and vehement, has come down to be temperate and cool. 
Yet, still, in that region which it occupies, it admits great scope ; and, 
to the defect of zeal and application, more than to the want of capa- 
city and genius, we may ascribe its not having hitherto risen higher. 
It is a field where there is much honour yet to be reaped ; it is an in- 
strument which may be employed for purposes of the highest importance. 
The ancient models may still, with much advantage, be set before us 
for imitation : though in that imitation, we must, doubtless, have some 
regard to what modern taste and modern manners will bear : of which I 
shah afterward have occasion to say more. , 



( 265 ) 

LECTURE XXVII 



DIFFERENT KINDS OF PUBLIC SPEAKING— ELOQUENCE OF POPULAE 
ASSEMBLIES— EXTRACTS FROM DEMOSTHENES. 

After the preliminary views which have been given of the nature of 
eloquence in general, and of the state in which it has subsisted in differ- 
ent ages and countries, I am now to enter on the consideration of the 
different kinds of public speaking, the distinguishing characters of each, 
and the rules which relate to them. The ancients divided all orations 
into three kinds ; the demonstrative, the deliberative, and the judicial. 
The scope of the demonstrative, was to praise or to blame ; that of 
the deliberative, to advise or to dissuade ; that of the judicial, to accuse 
or to defend. The chief subjects of demonstrative eloquence, were 
panegyrics, invectives, gratulatory and funeral orations. The deli- 
berative was employed in matters of public concern, agitated in the senate 
or before the assemblies of the people. The judicial is the same with 
the eloquence of the bar, employed in addressing judges, who have 
power to absolve or to condemn. This division runs through all the 
ancient treatises on rhetoric ; and is followed by the moderns who copy 
them. It is a division not inartificial ; and comprehends most, or all of 
the matters which can be the subject of public discourse. It will, how- 
ever, suit our purpose better, and be found, I imagine, more useful, to 
follow that division which the train of modern speaking naturally points 
out to us, taken from the three great scenes of eloquence, popular 
assemblies, the bar, and the pulpit ; each of which has a distinct charac- 
ter that particularly suits it. This division coincides in part with the 
ancient one. The eloquence of the bar is precisely the same with 
what the ancients called the judicial. The eloquence of popular assem- 
blies, though mostly of what they term the deliberative species, yet 
admits also of the demonstrative. The eloquence of the pulpit is alto- 
gether of a distinct nature, and cannot be properly reduced under any 
of the heads of the ancient rhetoricians. 

To all the three, pulpit, bar, and popular assemblies, belong in com- 
mon the rules concerning the conduct of a discourse in all its parts. 
Of these rules I purpose afterward to treat at large. But before pro- 
ceeding to them, I intend to show, first, what is peculiar to each of these 
three kinds of oratory, in their spirit, character, or manner. For every 
species of public speaking has a manner or character peculiarly suited 
to it : of which it is highly material to have a just idea, in order to direct 
the application of general rules. The eloquence of a lawyer is funda- 
mentally different from that of a divine, or a speaker in parliament : and 
to have a precise and proper idea of the distinguishing character which 
any kind of public speaking requires, is the foundation of what is called 
a just taste in that kind of speaking. 

Laying aside any question concerning the pre-eminence in point of 
rank, which is due to any one of the three kinds before mentioned, I 
snail begin with that which tends to throw most light upon the rest- viz 



256 ELOQUENCE OF [LECT. XXVIL 

the eloquence of popular assemblies. The most august theatre for this 
kind of eloquence, to be found in any nation of Europe, is, beyond 
doubt, the parliament of Great Britain. In meetings too, of less dignity, 
it may display itself. Wherever there is a popular court, or wherever 
any number of men are assembled for debate or consultation, there, in 
different forms, this species of eloquence may take place. 

Its object is, or ought always to be, persuasion. There must be 
some end proposed ; some point, most commonly of public utility or 
good, in favour of which we seek to determine the hearers. Now, in 
all attempts to persuade men, we must proceed upon this principle, that 
it is necessary to convince their understanding. Nothing can be more 
erroneous, than to imagine, that, because speeches to popular assem- 
blies admit more of a declamatory style than some other discourses, 
they therefore stand less in need of being supported by sound reasoning. 
When modelled upon this false idea, they may have the show, but 
never can produce the effect, of real eloquence. Even the show of 
eloquence which they make, will please only the trifling and superficial* 
For, with all tolerable judges, indeed almost with all men, mere decla- 
mation soon becomes insipid. Of whatever rank the hearers be, a 
speaker is never to presume, that by a frothy and ostentatious harangue, 
without solid sense, and argument, he can either make impression on 
them, or acquire fame to himself. It is, at least, a dangerous experi- 
ment ; for, where such an artifice succeeds once, it will fail ten times* 
Even the common people are better judges of argument and good sense, 
than we sometimes think them ; and upon any question of business, a 
plain man, who speaks to the point without art, will generally prevail 
over the most artful speaker, who deals in flowers and ornament, rather 
than in reasoning. Much more, when public speakers address them- 
selves to any assembly where there are persons of education and im- 
proved understanding, they ought to be careful not to trifle with their 
hearers. 

Let it be ever kept in view, that the foundation of all that can be 
called eloquence, is good sense and solid thought. As popular as the 
orations of Demosthenes were, spoken to all the citizens of Athens, 
every one who looks into them, must see how fraught they are with 
argument ; and how important it appeared to him, to convince the 
understanding, in order to persuade, or to work on the principles of ac- 
tion. Such a pattern as this, public speakers ought to set before them 
for imitation, rather than follow the track of those loose and frothy 
declaimers, who have brought discredit on eloquence. Let it be their 
first study, in addressing any popular assembly, to be previously masters 
of the business on which they are to speak ; to be well provided 
with matter and argument ; and to rest upon these as the chief stress. 
This will always give to their discourse an air of manliness and strength, 
which is a powerful instrument of persuasion. Ornament, if they have 
genius for it, will follow of course : at any rate, it demands only their 
secondary study : " Cura sit verborum ; solicitudo rerum." " To your 
expression be attentive, but about your matter be solicitous, " is an ad- 
viceof Quintilian, which cannot be too often recollected by all who study 
oratory. 

In the next place, in order to be persuasive speakers in a popular 
assembly, it is, in my opinion, a capital rule, that we be ourselves per 






LECT. XXV1T.] POPULAR ASSEMBLIES, g£g 



suaded of whatever we recommend to others. Never, when it ean be* 
avoided, ought we to espouse any side of the argument, but what 
we believe to be the true and the right one. Seldom or never will a 
man be eloquent, but when he is in earnest, and uttering his own senti- 
mentSi They are only the " veroe voces ab imo pectore," the unas- 
sumed language of the heart or head, that carry the force of convic- 
tion. In a former lecture, when entering on this subject I observed, 
that all high eloquence must be the offspring of passion, or warm emo- 
tion. It is this which makes every man persuasive ; and gives a force 
to his genius, which it possesses at no other time. Under what disad- 
vantage then is he placed^ who, not feeling what he utters, must counter- 
feit a warmth to which he is a stranger. 

I know, that young people, on purpose to train themselves to the art 
of speaking, imagine it useful to adopt that side of the question under 
debate, which, to themselves, appears the weakest, and to try what 
figure they can make upon iU But, I am afraid, this is not the most 
improving education for public speaking ; and that it tends to form them 
to a habit of flimsy and trivial discourse. Such a liberty they should, at 
no time, allow themselves, unless in meetings where no real business 
is carried on, but where declamation and improvement in speech is the 
sole aim. Nor even in such meetings, would I recommend it as the 
most useful exercise. They will improve themselves to more advan- 
tage, and acquit themselves with more honour, by choosing always that 
side of the debate to which in their own judgment, they are most in- 
clined, and supporting it by what seems to themselves most solid and 
persuasive. They will acquire the habit of reasoning closely, and 
expressing themselves with warmth and force, much more when they 
are adhering to their own sentiments, than when they are speaking in 
contradiction to them. In assemblies where any real business is carried 
on, whether that business be of much importance or not, it is always of 
dangerous consequence for young practitioners to make trial of this sort 
of play of speech. It may fix an imputation on their characters before 
they are aware ; and what they intend merely as amusement, may be 
turned to the discredit, either of their principles or their understanding. 
Debate in popular courts* seldom allows the speaker that full and 
accurate preparation beforehand, which the pulpit always, and the bar 
sometimes, admits. The arguments must be suited to the course which 
the debate takes : and as no man can exactly foresee this, one who 
trusts to a set speech, composed in his closet, will, on many occasions, 
be thrown out of the ground which he had taken. He will find it 
preoccupied by others, or his reasonings superseded by some new turn 
of the business ; and, if he ventures to use his prepared speech, it will 
be frequently at the hazard of making an awkward figure. There is a 
general prejudice with us, and not wholly an unjust one, against set 
speeches in public-meetings. The only occasion, when they have any 
propriety, is at the opening of a debate, when the speaker has it in his 
power to choose his field. But as the debate advances, and parties 
warm, discourses of this kind become more unsuitable. They want the 
native air; the appearance of being suggested by the business that is 
going on ; study and ostentation are apt to be visible ; and, of course, 
though applauded as elegant, they are seldom so persuasive as more free 
and unconstrained discourses. 

This, however, does not by any means conclude against prenaedita* 

K k 



atm ELOQUENCE OF- [LECT. XXVI! 

tion of what we are to say : the neglect of which, and the trusting 
wholly to extemporaneous efforts, will unavoidably produce the habit 
of speaking in a loose and undigested manner. But the premeditation 
which is of most advantage, in the case which we now consider, is of 
the subject or argument in general, rather than of nice composition 
in any particular branch of it. With regard to the matter, we cannot 
be too accurate in our preparation, so as to be fully masters of the busi- 
ness under consideration ; but with regard to words and expression, it 
is very possible so far to overdo, as to render our speech stiff and pre- 
cise. Indeed, till once persons acquire that firmness, that presence of 
mind, and command of expression, in a public meeting, which nothing 
but habit and practice can bestow, it may be proper for a young speaker 
to commit to memory the whole of what he is to say. But, after some 
performances of this kind have given him boldness, he will find it the 
better method not to confine himself so strictly : but only to write, 
beforehand, some sentences with which he intends to set out, in order 
to put himself fairly in the train : and, for the rest, to set down short 
notes of the topics, or principal thoughts upon which he is to insist, in 
their order, leaving the words to be suggested by the warmth of dis- 
course. Such short notes of the substance of the discourse, will be 
found of considerable service, to those, especially, who are beginning 
to speak in public. They will accustom them to some degree of ac- 
curacy, which if they speak frequently, they are in danger too soon of 
losing. They will even accustom them to think more closely on the 
subject in question ; and will assist them greatly in arranging their 
thoughts with method and order. 

This leads me next to observe, that in all kinds of public speaking, 
nothing is of greater consequence than a proper and clear method. I 
mean not that formal method of laying clown heads and subdivisions, 
which is commonly practised in the pulpit ; and which, in popular as- 
semblies, unless the speaker be a man of great authority and character, 
and the subject of great importance, and the preparation, too, very accu- 
rate, is rather in hazard of disgusting the hearers ; such an introduc- 
tion is presenting always the melancholy prospect of a long discourse. 
But though the method be not laid down in form, no discourse, of any 
length, should be without method ; that is, every thing should be found 
in its proper place. Every one who speaks, will find it of the greatest 
advantage to himself to have previously arranged his thoughts, and class- 
ed under proper heads, in his own mind, what he is to deliver. This 
will assist his memory, and carry him through his discourse, without 
that confusion to which one is every moment subject, who has fixed no 
distinct plan of what he is to say. And with respect to the hearers, 
order in discourse is absolutely necessary for making any proper im- 
pression. It adds both force and light to what is said. It makes them 
accompany the speaker easily and readily, as he goes along ; and makes 
thern feel the full effect of every argument which he employs. Few 
things, therefore, deserve more to be attended to than distinct arrange- 
ment : for eloquence, however great, can never produce entire convic- 
tion without it. Of the rules of method, and the proper distribution of 
the several parts of a discourse, I am hereafter to treat. 

Let us now consider of the style and expression suited to the . 
eloquence of popular assemblies. Beyond doubt, these give scope for 
the most animated manner of public speaking. The very aspect of a 
large assembly, engaged in some debate of moment, and attentive to the 



LEOT. XXVl/j POPULAR ASSEMBLIES; ggg 

discourse of one man, is sufficient to inspire that man with such eleva- 
tion and warmth, as both give rise to strong expressions, and give 
them propriety. Passion easily rises in a great assembly, where the 
movements are communicated by mutual sympathy between the orator 
and the audience. Those bold figures, of which I treated formerly as 
the native language of passion, have then their proper place. That 
ardour of speech, that vehemence and glow of sentiment, which arise 
from a mind animated and inspired by some great and public object, 
form the peculiar characteristics of popular eloquence, in its highest 
degree of perfection. 

The liberty, however, which we are now giving of the strong and 
passionate manner to this kind of oratory, must be always understood 
with certain limitations and restraints, which, it will be necessary to 
point out distinctly, in order to guard against dangerous mistakes on 
this subject. 

As, first, the warmth which we express must be suited to the occasion 
and the subject ; for nothing can be more preposterous, than an attempt 
to introduce great vehemence into a subject, which is either of slight 
importance, or which, by its nature, requires to be treated of calmly. 
A temperate tone of speech, is that for which there is most frequent 
occasion ; and he who is, on every subject, passionate and vehement, 
will be considered as a blusterer, and meet with little regard. 

In the second place, we must take care never to counterfeit warmth 
without feeling it. This always betrays persons into an unnatural man- 
ner, which exposes them to ridicule. For, as I have often suggested, 
to support the appearance, without the real feeling of passion, is one 
of the most difficult things in nature. The disguise can almost never 
be so perfect, but it is discovered. The heart can only answer to the 
heart. The great rule here, as indeed in every other case, is, to fol- 
low nature ; never to attempt a strain of eloquence which is not second- 
ed by our own genius. One may be a speaker, both of much re- 
putation and much influence, in the calm argumentative manner. To 
attain the pathetic, and the sublime of oratory, requires those strong 
sensibilities of mind, and that high power of expression which are 
given to few. 

In the third place, even when the subject justifies the vehement man- 
ner, and when genius prompts it ; when warmth is felt, not counter- 
feited ; we must, however, set a guard on ourselves, not to allow 
impetuosity to transport us too far. Without emotion in the speaker, 
eloquence, as was before observed, will never produce its highest 
effects ; but at the same time, if the speaker lose command of himself, 
he will soon lose command of his audience too. He must never kin- 
dle too soon ; he must begin with moderation : and study to carry 
his hearers along with him, as he warms in the progress of his dis- 
course. For, if he runs before in the course of passion, and leaves 
them behind ; if they are not turned, if we may speak so, in unison to 
him, the discord will presently be felt, and be very grating. Let a 
speaker have ever so good reason to be animated and fired by his sub- 
ject, it is always expected of him, that the awe and regard due to his 
audience should lay a decent restraint upon his warmth, and prevent it 
from carrying him beyond certain bounds. If, when most heated by 
the subject, he can be so far master of himself as to preserve close at- 
tention to argument, and even to some degree of correct expression, 



!60 



ELOQUENCE OF [LECT. XXVII. 



this self-command, this exertion of reason, in the midst of passion, has 
a wonderful effect both to please and to persuade. It is indeed the mas- 
terpiece, the highest attainment of eloquence ; uniting the strength of 
reason with the vehemence of passion ; affording all the advantages of 
passion for the purpose of persuasion, without the confusion and disor- 
der which are apt to accompany it. 

In the fourth place, in the highest and most animated strain of popu- 
lar speaking, we must always preserve regard to what the pulic ear 
will bear. This direction I give, in order to guard against an injudicious 
imitation of ancient orators, who, both in their pronunciation and ges- 
ture, and in their figures of expression, used a bolder manner than what 
the greater coolness of modern taste will readily suffer. This may 
perhaps, as I formerly observed, be a disadvantage to modern eloquence. 
It is no reason why we should be too severe in checking the impulse of 
genius, and continue always creeping on the ground : but it is a reason, 
however, wtvy we should avoid carrying the tone of declamation to a 
height that would now be reckoned extravagant. Demosthenes, to justify 
the unsuccessful action of Cheroncea, calls up the names of those heroes 
who fell in the battle of Marathon and Plataea, and swears by them, that 
their fellow-citizens had done well, in their endeavours to support the 
game cause. Cicero, in his oration for Milo, implores and obtests the Al- 
ban hills and groves, and makes a long address to them : and both pas- 
sages, in these orators, have a fine effect." But how few modern orators 
could venture on such apostrophes ? and what a power of genius would 
it require to give such figures now their proper grace, or make them pro- 
duce a due effect upon the hearers ? 

In the fifth and last place, in all kinds of public speaking, but espe- 
cially in popular assemblies, it is a capital rule to attend to all the decorums 
of time, place, and character. No warmth of eloquence can atone for 
the neglect of these. That vehemence, which is becoming in a person 
of character and authority, may be unsuitable to the modesty expected 
from a young speaker. That sportive and witty manner which may suit 
one'subject and one assembly, is altogether out ol place in a grave cause, 
and a solemn meeting. " Caput artis est," says Quintilian, " decere." 
** The first principle of art, is to observe decorum. " No one should 
ever rise to speak in public, without forming to himself a just andatrict 
idea of what suits his own age and character ; w 7 hat suits the subject, 
the hearers, the place, the occasion : and adjusting the whole train and 
manner of his speaking on this idea. All the ancients insist much on 
this. Consult the first chapter of the eleventh book of Quintilian, which 
is employed wholly on this point, and is full of good sense. Cicero's 
admonitions in his Orator and Brutum, I shall give in his own words, which 
should never be forgotten by any who speak in public. " Est eloquential 

* The passage in Cicero is very beautiful, and adorned with the highest colouring 
of his eloquence. " ]N T on est huinano consilio, ne mediocri quidem, judices, deorum 
immortalium eura, res ilia perfecta. Religiones, mehercule, ipsa? araeque cum illara, 
belluam cadere viderunt. commovisse se videntur, et jus in ilio suum relinuisse. 
Vosenim jam Albani tumuli, atque luci, vos inquam imploro atque obtestor, vosque 
Albanorum obrutae aree, saerorum populi Romani social et cequales, quas iile prae- 
ceps amentia, caesis prostratisque,sanctissimislucis, substructionum insanis molibus 
oppresserat ; vestrae turn arae, vestrae religiones viguerunt, vestra vis valuit, quam 
ille omni scelere polluerat. Tuque ex tuo edito monte Latiali, sancte Jupiter, 
eujus ille lacus, nemora, finesque, saepe omni nefario strupro, scelere macularat 3 
ialiquando ad eura puniendum, oculos aperuisti : vobis iliae, vobis vestro in con* 
*pectu sera?, sed justae taraen. et debitee poenaj solutee sunt." 



LECT. XXVII.] POPULAR ASSEMBLIES. 26 j 

sicut reliquarum reruin, fundamentum, sapientia ; ut enim in vita, sic in 
oratione nihil est difficilius quam quod deceat videre ; hujus ignoratione 
soepissime peccatur ; non enim omnis fortuna, non omnis auctoritas, non 
omnis aetas, nee vero locus, aut tempus, aut auditor omnis, eodem aut 
verborum genere tractandus est, aut sententiarum. Semperque in omni 
parti orationis, ut vitas, quid deceat considerandum ; quod et in re de 
qua agitur positum est, et in personis et eorum qui dicunt, et eorum qui 
audiunt."* So much for the considerations that require to be attended 
to, with respect to the vehemence and warmth which is allowed in popu- 
lar eloquence. 

The current of style should in general be full, free, and natural. 
Quaint and artificial expressions are out of place here ; and always de- 
rogate from persuasion. It is a strong and manly style which should 
chiefly be studied ; and metaphorical language, when properly introdu- 
ced, produces often a happy effect. When the metaphors are warm, 
glowing, and descriptive, some inaccuracy in them will be overlooked, 
which, in a written composition, would be remarked and censured. 
Amidst the torrent of declamation, the strength of the figure makes 
impression ; the inaccuracy of it escapes. 

With regard to the degree of conciseness or diffuseness suited to po- 
pular eloquence, it is not easy to fix any exact bounds. 1 know that it is 
common to recommend a diffuse manner as the most proper. I am in- 
clined, however, to think, that there is danger of erring in this respect ; 
and that by indulging too much in the diffuse style, public speakers oftera 
lose more in point of strength, than they gain by the fulness of their 
illustration. There is no doubt, that in speaking;to a multitude, we must 
not speak in sentences and apophthegms : care must be taken to explain 
and to inculcate ; but this care may be, and frequently is, carried too far. 
We ought always to remember that how much soever we may be pleased 
with hearing ourselves speak, every audience is very ready to be tired ; 
and the moment they begin to tire, all our eloquence goes for nothing. 
A loose and verbose manner never fails to create disgust; and, on most 
occasions, we had better run the risk of saying too little than too much. 
Better place our thought in one strong point of view, and rest it there, 
than by turning it into every light, and pouring forth a profusion of words 
upon it, exhaust the attention of our hearers, and leave them flat and 
languid. 

Of pronunciation and delivery, I am hereafter to treat apart. It is 
sufficient now to observe, that in speaking to mixed assemblies, the best 
manner of delivery is the firm and the determined. An arrogant and 
overbearing manner is indeed always disagreeable; and the least ap- 
pearance of it ought to be shunned : but there is a certain decisive tone, 
which may be assumed even by a modest man, who is thoroughly per- 
suaded of the sentiments he utters ; and which is best calculated for 
making a general impression. A feeble and hesitating manner bespeaks 

* " Good sense is the foundation of eloquence, as it is of all other things that are 
valuable. It happens in oratory exactly as it does in life, that frequently nothing is 
more difficult than to discern what is proper and becoming. In consequence of 
mistaking this, the grossest faults are often committed. For to the different degrees 
of rank, fortune, and age among men, to all the varieties of time, place, and audi* 
tory, the same style of language, and the same strain of thought, cannot agree. In 
every part of a discourse, just as in every part of life, we must attend to what is 
suitable and decent; whether that be determined by the nature of the subject oi* 
rhich we treat, or by the Characters of those who speak, or of those who hear." 



|62 EXTRACTS FROM [f.KCT. XXVII. 

always some distrust of a man's own opinion ; which is, by no means, a 
favourable circumstance for his inducing others to embrace it. 

These are the chief thoughts which have occurred to me from reflec- 
tion and observation, concerning the peculiar distinguishing characters of 
the eloquence proper for popular assemblies. The sum of what has 
been said is this : the end of popular speaking is persuasion ; and this 
must be founded on conviction. Argument and reasoning must be the 
basis, if we would be speakers of business, and not mere declaimers. 
We should be engaged in earnest on the side which we espouse ; and 
utter, as much as possible, our own, and not counterfeited sentiments. 
The premeditation should be of things, rather than of words. Clear 
order and method should be studied ; the manner and expression warm 
and animated : though still, in the midst of that vehemence, which may 
at times be suitable, carried on under proper restraints, which regard 
to the audience, and to the decorum of character, ought to lay on every 
public speaker : the style free and easy ; strong and descriptive, rather 
than diffuse ; and the delivery determined and firm. To conclude this 
head, let every orator remember, that the impression made by fine and 
artful speaking is momentary ; that made by argument and good sense, 
is solid and lasting. 

I shall now, that I may afford an exemplification of that species of ora- 
tory of which I have been treating, insert some extracts from Demos- 
thenes. Even under the great disadvantage of an English translation, 
they will exhibit a small specimen of that vigorous and spirited eloquence 
which I have so often praised. I shall take my extracts mostly from 
the Philippics and Olynthiacs, which were entirely popular orations, spo- 
ken to the general convention of the citizens of Athens : and, as the sub- 
ject of both the Philippics and the Olynthiacs is the same, I shall not 
confine myself to one oration, but shall join together passages taken from 
two or three of them ; such as may show his general strain of speaking, 
on some of the chief branches of the subject. The subject in general is, 
to rouse the Athenians to guard against Philip of Macedon, whose grow- 
ing power and crafty policy, had by that time endangered, and soon after 
overwhelmed the liberties of Greece. The Athenians began to be 
alarmed ; but their deliberations were slow, and their measures feeble ; 
several of their favourite orators having been gained by Philip's 
bribes to favour his cause. In this critical conjuncture of affairs, De- 
mosthenes arose. In the following manner he begins his first Philip- 
pic ; which, like the exordiums of all his orations, is simple and artless.* 

" Had we been convened, Athenians ! on some new subject of debate. 
I had waited till most of your usual counsellors had declared their opi- 
nions. If I had approved of what was proposed by them, I should have 
continued silent ; if not, I should then have attempted to speak my sen- 
timents. But since those very points on which these speakers have 
oftentimes been heard already, are at this time to be considered ; 
though I have arisen first, I presume I may expect your pardon : for if 
they on former occasions had advised the proper measures, you would 
not have found it needful to consult at present. 

" First then, Athenians ! however wretched the situation of our affairs 
at present seems, it must not by any means be thought desperate. What 
I am now going to advance may possibly appear a paradox ; yet it is a 

7 In the following extracts Leland's translation is mostly followed. 



LECT, XXVII.] DEMOSTHENIC £'63 

certain truth that our past misfortunes afford a circumstance most fa- 
vourable of all others to our future hopes.* And what is this ? even 
that our present difficulties are owing entirely to our total indolence, and 
utter disregard of our own interest. For were we thus situated, in spite 
of every effort which our duty demanded, then indeed we might regard 
our fortunes as absolutely desperate. But now, Philip hath only con- 
quered your supineness and inactivity ; the state he hath not conquered. 
You cannot be said to be defeated ; your force hath never been exerted. 
" If there is a man in this assembly who thinks that we mast find a for- 
midable enemy in Philip, while he views on one hand the numerous ar- 
mies which surround him, and on the other the weakness of our state, 
despoiled of so much of its dominions, I cannot deny that he thinks justly . 
Yet let him reflect on this : there was a time, Athenians ! when we pos- 
sessed Pydna, Poticea, and Melthone, and all that country round : when 
many of the states, now subjected to him, were free and independent, 
and more inclined to our alliance than to his. If Philip, at that time 
weak in himself, and without allies, had desponded of success against you, 
he would never have engaged in those enterprises which are now 
crowned with success, nor could have raised himself to that pitch of 
grandeur at which you now behold him. But he knew well that the 
strongest places are only prizes laid between the combatants, and ready 
for the conqueror. He knew that the dominions of the absent devolve 
naturally to those who are in the field ; the possessions of the supine, to 
the active and intrepid; Animated by these sentiments, he overturns 
whole nations. He either rules universally as a conqueror, or governs 
as a protector. For mankind naturally seek confederacy with such, as 
they see resolved, and preparing not to be wanting to themselves. 

" If you, my countrymen ! will now at length be persuaded to enter- 
tain the like sentiments ; if each of you will be disposed to approve him- 
self a useful citizen, to the utmost that his station and abilities enable 
him ; if the rich will be ready to contribute, and the young to take the 
field ; in one word, if you will be yourselves, and banish these vain hopes 
which every single person entertains, that the active part of public busi- 
ness may lie upon others, and he remain at his ease ; you may then, by 
the assistance of the gods, recall those opportunities which your supine- 
ness hath neglected, regain your dominions, and chastise the insolence of 
this man. 

" But when, Omy countrymen ! will you begin to exertyour vigour ? 
Do you wait till roused by some dire event? till forced by some necessity ? 
What then are we to think of our present condition ? To freemen, the 
disgrace attending on misconduct is, in my opinion, the most urgent 
necessity. Or say, is it your sole ambition to wander through the pub- 
lic places, each inquiring of the other, " what new advices ?" Can any 
thing be more new, than that a man of Macedon should conquer the 
Athenians, and give law to Greece ? " Is Philip dead ?" — " No — but he 
is sick." Pray, what is it to you whether Philip is sick or not? sup- 
posing he should die, you would raise up another Philip, if you continue 
thus regardless of your interest. 

" Many, I know, delight more in nothing than in circulating all the 
rumours they hear as articles of intelligence. Some cry, Philip hath 

* This thought is only hinted at in the first Philippic, but brought out more fully in 
Hie third ; as the same thoughts, occasioned by similar situations of affairs, some- 
•itnes occur in the different orations on this subject, 



264 EXTRACTS FROM [LEGT. XXVJJ. 

joined with the Lacedaemonians, and they are concerting the destruction 
of Thebes. Others assure us, he hath sent an embassy to the King of 
Persia; others, that he is fortifying places in Ulyria. Thus we all go 
about framing our several tales. I do believe indeed, Athenians ! that 
he is intoxicated with his greatness, and does entertain his imagination 
with many such visionary projects, as he sees no power rising to oppose 
him. But I cannot be persuaded that he hath so taken his measures, 
that the weakest among us (for the weakest they are who spread such 
rumours) know what he is next to do. Let us disregard these tales. Let 
us only be persuaded of this, that he is our enemy ; that w r e have long 
been subject to his insolence ; that whatever we expected to have been 
done for us by others, hath turned against us ; that all the resource left, 
is in ourselves ; and that if we are not inclined to carry our arms abroad, 
we should be forced to engage him at home. Let us be persuaded of 
these things, and then we shall come to a proper determination, and be 
no longer guided by rumours. We need not be solicitous to know what 
particular events are to happen. We may be well assured that nothing 
good can happen, unless we give due attention to our own affairs, and act 
as becomes Athenians. 

"Were it a point generally acknowledged,* that Philip is now at actual 
war with the state, the only thing under deliberation would then be, how 
to oppose him with most safety. But since there are persons so strangely 
infatuated, that although he has already possessed himself of a consider- 
able part of our dominions ; although he is still extending his conquests ; 
although all Greece has suffered by his injustice ; yet they can hear it re- 
peated in this assembly, that it is some of us who seek to embroil the state 
in war : this suggestion must first be guarded against. I readily admit, 
that were it in our power to determine whether we should be at peace 
or war, peace, if it depended on our option, is most desirable to be em- 
braced. But if the other party hath drawn the sword, and gathered his 
armies round him ; if he amuses us with the name of peace, while, in 
fact, he is proceeding to the greatest hostilities, what is left for us but to 
oppose him ? If any man takes that for a peace, which is only a prepa- 
ration for his leading his forces directly upon us, after his other conquests, 
I hold that man's mind to be disordered. At least, it is only our conduct 
towards Philip, not Philip's conduct towards us, that is to be termed a 
peace ; and this is the peace for which Philip's treasures are expended, 
for which his gold is so liberally scattered among our venal orators, that 
he may be at liberty to carry on the war against you, while you make no 
war on him. 

" Heavens! is there any man of a right mind who would judge of peace 
or war by words, and not by actions ? Is there any man so weak as to ima- 
gine that it is for the sake of those paltry villages of Thrace, Dronguylus, 
and Cabyle, and Mastira, that Philip i3 now braving the utmost dangers, 
and enduring the severity of toils and seasons ; and that he has no de- 
signs upon the arsenals, and the navies, and the silver mines of Athens ? 
or that he will take up his winter quarters among the cells and dungeons 
of Thrace, and leave you to enjoy all your revenues in peace ? But 
you wait, perhaps, till he declare war against you. He will never do so : 
no, though he were at your gates. He will still be assuring you that he 
is not at war. Such were his professions to the people of Oreum, when 

* Phil. iii. 



LECT. XXVIl.j DEMOSTHENES. 265 

liis forces were in the heart of their country ; such his professions to 
those of Pherae, until the moment he attacked their wall : and thus he 
amused the Olynthians till he came within a few miles of them, and 
then he sent them a message, that either they must quit their city, or 
he his kingdom. He would indeed be the absurdest of mankind, if, 
while you suffer his outrages to pass unnoticed, and are wholly engaged 
in accusing and prosecuting one another, he should, by declaring war, 
put an end to your private contests, warn you to direct all your zeal 
against him, and deprive his pensioners of their most specious pretence 
for suspending your resolutions, that of his not being at war with the 
state. I, for my part, hold and declare, that by his attack of the 
Megaraeans, by his attempts upon the liberty of Euboea, by his late 
incursions in Thrace, by his practices in Peloponnesus, Philip has 
violated the treaty ; he is in a state of hostility with you ; unless you 
shall affirm, that he who prepares to besiege a city, is still at peace, 
until the walls be actually invested. The man whose designs, whose 
whole conduct tends to reduce me to subjection, that man is at war with 
me, though not a blow hath yet been given, nor a sword drawn. 

" All Greece, all the barbarian world, is too narrow for this man's am- 
bition. And though we Greeks see and hear all this, we send no 
embassies to each other ; we express no resentment ; but into such 
wretchedness are we sunk, that even to this day, we neglect what our 
interest and duty demand. Without engaging in associations, or forming 
confederacies, we look with unconcern upon Philip's growing power ; 
each fondly imagining, that the time in which another is destroyed, is 
so much time gained to him; although no man can be ignorant, that, 
like the regular periodic return of a fever, he is coming upon those who 
think themselves the most remote from danger. And what is the cause 
of our present passive disposition ? For some cause sure there must 
be, why the Greeks, who have been so zealous heretofore in defence 
of liberty, are now so prone to slavery. The cause, Athenians ! is, 
that a principle, which was formerly fixed in the minds of all, now ex- 
ists no more ; a principle which conquered the opulence of Persia ; 
maintained the freedom of Greece, and triumphed over the powers of 
sea and land. That principle was, an unanimous abhorrence of all 
those who accepted bribes from princes, that were enemies to the liber- 
ties of Greece. To be convicted of bribery, was then a crime alto- 
gether unpardonable. Neither orators nor generals would then sell 
for gold, the favourable conjunctures which fortune put into their hands. 
No gold could impair our firm concord at home, our hatred and diffi- 
dence of tyrants and barbarians. But now all things are exposed to 
sale, as in a public market. Corruption has introduced such manners, 
as have proved the bane and destruction of our country. Is a man 
known to have received foreign money ? People envy him. Does he 
own it? They laugh. Is he convicted in form? They forgive him : 
so universally has this contagion diffused itself among us. 

" If there be any who, though not carried away by bribes, yet are 
struck with terror, as if Philip was something more than human, they 
may see, upon a little consideration, that he hath exhausted all those 
artifices to which he owes his present elevation ; and that his affairs are 
now ready to decline. For I myself, Athenians! should think Philip 
really to be dreaded, if I saw him raised by honourable means. When 
forces join in harmony and affection, and one common interest unites 

LI 



26G EXTRACTS FROM DEMOSTHENES. [LECT. XXVII. 

confederating powers, then they share the toils with alacrity, and endure 
distresses with perseverance. But when extravagant ambition and law- 
less power, as in the case of Philip, have aggrandized a single person, 
the first pretence, the slightest accident overthrows him, and dashes 
his greatness to the ground. For, it is not possible, Athenians ! it is not 
possible, to found a lasting power upon injustice, perjury, and treach- 
ery. These may perhaps succeed for once, and borrow for a while, 
from hope, a gay and flourishing appearance. But time betrays their 
weakness, and they fall of themselves to ruin. For, as in structures of 
every kind, the lower parts should have the firmest stability, so the 
grounds and principles of great enterprises should be justice and truth. 
Bvit this solid foundation is wanting to all the enterprises of Philip. 

" Hence, among his confederates, there are many who hate, who dis- 
trust, who envy him. If you will exert yourselves as your honour and 
your interest require, you will not only discover the weakness and insin- 
cerity of his confederates, but the ruinous condition also of his own king- 
dom. For you are not to imagine, that the inclinations of his subjects 
are the same with those of their prince. He thirsts for glory ; but they 
have no part in this ambition. Harassed by^ those various excursions 
he is ever making, they groan under perpetual calamity ; torn from their 
business and their families ; and beholding commerce excluded from their 
coasts. All those glaring exploits, which have given him his apparent 
greatness, have wasted his natural strength, his own kingdom, and render- 
ed it much weaker than it originally was. Besides, his profligacy and 
baseness, and those troops of buffoons, and dissolute persons, whom he 
caresses and keeps constantly about him, are, to men of just discernment, 
great indications of the weakness of his mind. At present his successes 
cast a shade over these things ; but let his arms meet with the least dis- 
grace, his feebleness will appear and his character be exposed. For, as 
in our bodies, while a man is in apparent health, the effect of some in- 
ward debility, which has been growing upon him, may, for a time, be 
concealed ; but as soon as it comes the length of disease, all his secret 
infirmities show themselves, in whatever part of his frame the disorder is 
lodged : so, in states and monarchies, while they carry on a war abroad, 
many defects escape the general eye ; but, as soon as war reaches their 
own territory, their infirmities come forth to general observation. 

" Fortune has great influence on all human affairs ; but I, for my part, 
should prefer the fortune of Athens with the least degree of vigour in as- 
serting your cause, to this man's fortune. For we have many better rea- 
sons to depend upon the favour of Heaven than this man. But, indeed, 
he who will not exert his own strength, hath no title to depend either on 
his friends, or on the gods. Is it at all surprising that he who is himself ever 
amidst the labours and dangers of the field ; who is every where ; whom 
no opportunity escapes ; to whom no season is unfavourable ; should be 
superior to you, who are wholly engaged in contriving delays, and fram- 
ing decrees, and inquiring after news ? The contrary would be much 
more surprising, if we, who have never hitherto acted as became a state 
engaged in war, should conquer one who acts, in every instance, with in- 
defatigable vigilance. It is this, Athenians ! it is this which gives him all 
his advantage against you. Philip, constantly surrounded by his troops, 
and perpetually engaged in projecting his designs, can in a moment strike 
the blow where he pleases. But we, when any accident alarms us, first 
appoint onr Trierarchs : then we allow them to exchange by substitu- 



LECT; XXVIII. j ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. 267 

tioa : then the supplies are considered ; next, we resolve to man our 
fleet with strangers and foreigners ; then find it necessary to supply their 
place ourselves. In the midst of these delays, what we are sailing to 
defend, the enemy is already master of; for the time of action is spent 
by us in preparing ; and the issues of war will not wait for our slow and 
irresolute measures. 

" Consider then your present situation, and make such provision as 
the urgent danger requires. Talk not of your ten thousands, or your 
twenty thousand foreigners ; of those armies which appear so magnifi- 
cent on paper only ; great and terrible in your decrees, in execution 
weak and contemptible. But let your army be made up chiefly of the 
native forces of the state ; let it be an Athenian strength to which you 
are to trust ; and whomsoever you appoint as general, let them be 
entirely under his guidance and authority. For ever since our armies 
have been formed of foreigners alone, their victories have been gained 
over our allies and confederates only, while our enemies have risen to 
an extravagance of power." 

The orator goes on to point out the number of forces which should be 
raised, and the places of their destination ; the season of the year in 
which they should set out ; and then proposes in form his motion, as we 
would call it, or his decree, for the necessary supply of money, and for 
ascertaihing the funds from which it should be raised. Having finished 
all that relates to the business under deliberation, he concludes these ora- 
tions on public affairs, commonly with no longer peroration than the fol- 
lowing, which terminates the first Philippic ; " I, for my part, have never, 
upon any occasion, chosen to court your favour by speaking any thing but 
what I was convinced would serve you. And on this occasion, you have 
heard my sentiments freely declared, without art, and without reserve. 
I should have been pleased, indeed, that, as it is for your advantage to 
have your true interest laid before you, so I might have been assured, 
that he who layeth it before you should share the same advantage. But, 
uncertain as I know the consequence to be with respect to myself, I yet 
determined to speak, because I was convinced that these measures, if 
pursued, would prove beneficial to the public. And, of all those opi- 
nions which shall be offered to your acceptance, may the gods determine 
that to be chosen which will best advance the general welfare !" 

These extracts may serve to give some imperfect idea of the manner 
of Demosthenes. For a juster and more complete one, recourse must 
be had to the excellent original. 



LECTURE XXVIII. 



ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR— ANALYSIS OF CICERO'S ORATION 
FOR CLUENTIUS. 

I treated in the last lecture of what is peculiar to the eloquence of 
popular assemblies. Much of what was said on that head is applicable 
to the eloquence of the bar, the next great scene of public speaking, to 
which 1 now proceed, and my observations upon which will therefore be 



268 ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. [LEOT-. XXV11, 

the shorter. All, however, that was said in the former lecture must 
not be applied to it ; and it is of importance, that I begin with showing 
where the distinction lies. 

In the first place, the ends of speaking at the bar, and in popular assem- 
blies, are commonly different. In popular assemblies, the great object 
is persuasion ; the orator aims at determining the hearers to some choice 
or conduct, as good, fit, or useful. For accomplishing this end, it is in- 
cumbent on him to apply himself to all the principles of action in our na- 
ture : to the passions and to the heart, as well as to the understanding. 
But, at the bar, conviction is the great object. There, it is not the speak- 
er's business to persuade the judges to what is good or useful, but to 
show them what is just and true ; and of course, it is chiefly or solely, to 
the understanding that his eloquence is addressed. This is a character- 
istical difference which onght ever to be kept in view. 

In the next place, speakers at the bar address themselves to one or to 
a few judges, and these, too, persons generally of age, gravity, and au- 
thority of character. There they have not those advantages which a 
mixed and numerous assembly affords for employing all the arts of speech, 
even supposing their subject to admit them. Passion does not rise so 
easily ; the speaker is heard more coolly ; he is watched over more 
severely, and would expose himself to ridicule, by attempting that high 
vehement tone, which is only proper in speaking to a multitude. 

In the last place, the nature and management of the subjects which be- 
long to the bar, require a very different species of oratory from that of 
popular assemblies. In the latter, the speaker has a much wider range. 
He is seldom confined to any precise rule ; he can fetch his topics from 
a great variety of quarters ; and employ every illustration which his 
fancy or imagination suggests. But, at the bar, the field of speaking is 
limited to precise law and statute. Imagination is not allowed to take 
its scope. The advocate was always laying before him the line, the 
square, and the compass. These, it is his principal business to be con- 
tinually applying to the subjects under debate. 

For these reasons, it is clear, that the eloquence of the bar is of a 
much more limited, more sober and chastened kind, than that of popular 
assemblies ; and for similar reasons, we must beware of considering even 
the judicial orations of Cicero or Demosthenes, as exact models of the 
manner of speaking which is adapted to the present state of the bar. It 
is necessary to warn young lawyers of this ; because, though these were 
pleadings spoken in civil or criminal causes, yet, in fact, the nature of 
the bar. anciently, both in Greece and Rome, allowed as much nearer 
approach to popular eloquence, than what it now does. This was owing 
chiefly to two causes : 

First, Because in the ancient judicial orations, strict law was much less 
an object of attention than it is become among us. In the days of De- 
mosthenes and Cicero, the municipal statutes were few, simple, and ge- 
neral ; and the decision of causes was trusted, iu a great measure, to the 
equity and common sense of the judges. Eloquence, much more than ju- 
risprudence, was the study of those who were to plead causes. Cicero 
somewhere says, that three months study was sufficient to make any man 
a complete civilian ; nay, it was thought that one might be a good pleader 
at the bar, who had never studied law at all. For there were among the 
Romans a set of men called pragmatici, whose office it was to give the 
orator all the law knowledge which the cause he was to plead requi- 



LECT. XXVIII.] ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. ggg| 

red, and which he put into that popular form, and dressed up with those 
colours of eloquence, that were best fitted for influencing the judges 
before whom he spoke. 

We may observe next, that the civil and criminal judges, both in 
Greece and Rome, were commonly much more numerous than they are 
with us, and formed a sort ©f popular assembly. The renowned tribunal 
of the Areopagus at Athens consisted of fifty judges at the least.* Some 
make it to consist of a great many more. When Socrates was condemned, 
by what court it is uncertain, we are informed that no fewer than 280 
voted against him. In Rome, the Praetor, who was the proper judge 
both in civil and criminal causes, named, for every cause of moment, 
the Judices Selecti, as they were called, who were always numerous, and 
had the office and power of both judge and jury. In the famous cause of 
Milo, Cicero spoke to fifty-one Judices Selecti. and so had the advantage 
of addressing his whole pleading, not to one or a few learned judges of 
the point of law, as is the case with us, but to an assembly of Roman 
citizens. Hence all those arts of popular eloquence, which we find the 
Roman orator so frequently employing, and probably with much success. 
Hence tears and commiseration are so often made use of as the instru- 
ments of gaining a cause. Hence certain practices, which would be reck- 
oned theatrical among us, were common at the Roman bar ; such as in- 
troducing not only the accused person dressed in deep mourning, but 
presenting to the judges his family, and his young children, endeavouring 
to move them by their cries and tears. 

For these reasons, on account of the wide difference between the 
ancient and modern state of the bar, to which we may add also the differ- 
ence in the turn of ancient and modern eloquence, which I formerly 
took notice of, too strict an imitation of Cicero's manner of pleading 
would now be extremely injudicious. To great advantage he may still be 
studied by every speaker at the bar. In the address with which he opens 
his subject, and the insinuation he employs for gaining the favour of the 
judges ; in the distinct arrangement of his facts ; in the gracefulness of 
his narration ; in the conduct and exposition of his arguments, he may 
and he ought to be imitated. A higher pattern cannot be set before us ; 
but one who should imitate him also in his exaggeration and amplifications, 
in his diffuse and pompous declamation, and in his attempts to raise pas- 
sion, would now make himself almost as ridiculous at the bar, as if he 
should appear there in the Toga of a Roman lawyer. 

Before I descend to more particular directions concerning the elo- 
quence of the bar, I must be allowed to take notice, that the foundation 
of a lawyer's reputation and success, must always be laid in a profound 
knowledge of his own profession. Nothing is of such consequence to 
him, or deserves more of his deep and serious study. For whatever his 
abilities as a speaker may be, if his knowledge of the law be reckoned 
superficial, few will choose to commit their cause to him. Resides pre- 
vious study, and a proper stock of knowledge attained, another thing 
highly material to the success of every pleader, is, a diligent and painful 
attention to every cause with which he is intrusted, so as to be thoroughly 
master of all the facts and circumstances relating to it. On this, the 
ancient rhetoricians insist with great earnestness, and justly represent it 
as a necessary basis to all the eloquence that can be exerted in pleading. 

■ Vide Potter., Antiq. vol. i. p. 102. 



27Q ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. [LECT. XXV11I, 

Cicero tells us (under the character of Antonius, in the second book 
De Oratore) that he always conversed at full length with every client 
who came to consult him ; that he took care there should be no witness 
to their conversation, in order that his client might explain himself more 
freely ; that he was wont to start every objection, and to plead the cause 
of the adverse party with him, that he might come at the whole truth, 
an \ be fully prepared on every point of the business ; and that, after the 
client had retired, he used to balance all the facts with himself, under 
three different characters, his own, that of the judge, and that of the 
advocate on the opposite side. He censures very severely those of the 
profession who decline taking so much trouble ; taxing them not only 
with shameful negligence, but with dishonesty and breach of trust.* 
To the same purpose Quintilian, in the eighth chapter of his last book, 
delivers a great many excellent rules concerning all the methods which 
a lawyer should employ for obtaining the most thorough knowledge of 
the cause he is to plead ; again and again recommending patience and 
attention in conversation with clients, and observing very sensibly, 
" Non tarn obest audire supervacua, quam ignorare necessaria. Fre- 
quenter enim et vulnus, et remedium, in iis orator inveniet quae litigatori 
in neutram partem, habere momentum videbantur."t 

Supposing an advocate to be thus prepared, with all the knowledge 
which the study of the law in general, and of that cause which he is to 
plead in particular, can furnish him, I must next observe, that eloquence 
in pleading is of the highest moment for giving support to a cause. It 
were altogether wrong to infer, that because the ancient popular and 
vehement manner of pleading is now in a great measure superseded, 
there is therefore no room for eloquence at the bar, and that the study of 
it is become superfluous. Though the manner of speaking be changed, 
yet still there is a right and proper manner which deserves to be studied 
as much as ever. Perhaps there is no scene of public speaking where 
eloquence is more necessary. For, on other occasions, the subject on 
which men speak in public, is- frequently sufficient, by itself, to interest 
the hearers. But the dryness and subtilty of the subjects generally agi- 
tated at the bar, require more than any other, a certain kind of eloquence 
in order to command attention ; in order to give proper weight to the 
arguments that are employed, and to prevent any thing which the pleader 
advances from passing unregarded. The effect of good speaking is 
always very great. There is as much difference in the impression made 
upon the hearers, by a cold, dry, and confused speaker, and that made by 
one who pleads the same cause with elegance, order, and strength, as 
there is between our conception of an object, when it is presented to us 
in a dim light, and when we behold it in a full and clear one. 

It is no small encouragement to eloquence at the bar, that of all 

* " Equidem soleo dare operam, ut de sua quisque re me ipse doceat ; et nequis 
alius adsit, quo liberius loquatur et agere adversarii causam, ut ille agat suam ; et 
quicquid de sua re cogitaret, in medium proferat. Itaque cum ille decessit, tres 
personas unus sustineo, summa animi equitate ; meam, adversarii, judices. — Non- 
nulli dum operam suam multam existimari volunt, uttotoforovolitare, eta causa ad 
causam ire videantur, causas dicunt incognitas. In quo est ilia quidem magna of- 
fensio, vel negligentise susceptis rebus, vel perfidiae receptis; sed etiam ilia, major 
opinione, quod nemo potest de ea re quam non novit, non turpissime decere." 

t tl To listen to something that is superfluous can do no hurt ; whereas to be igno- 
rant of something that is material, may be highly prejudicial. The advocate will 
frequently discover the weak side of a cause, and learn at the same time, what is 
the proper defence, from circumstances which, to the party himself, appeared to be 
of little or no moment." 



■H 



I 



LECT. XXVIII. j. ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR, 271 

liberal professions, none gives fairer play to genius and abilities than that 
of the advocate. He is less exposed than some others to suffer by the 
arts of rivalry, by popular prejudices, or secret intrigues. He is sure 
of coming forward according to his merit ; for he stands forth every day 
to view ; he enters the list boldly with his competitors ; every appearance 
which he makes is an appeal to the public, whose decision seldom fails of 
being just, because it is impartial. Interest and friends may set forward 
a young pleader with peculiar advantages beyond others, at the begin- 
ning ; but they can do no more than open the field to him. A reputa- 
tion resting on these assistances will soon fall. Spectators remark, 
judges decide, parties watch ; and to him will the multitude of clients 
never fail to resort, who gives the most approved specimens of his 
knowledge, eloquence, and industry. 

It must be laid down for a first principle, that the eloquence suited to 
the bar, whether in speaking, or in writing law papers, is of the calm 
and temperate kind, and connected with close reasoning. Sometimes a 
little play maybe allowed to the imagination, in order to enliven a dry 
subject, and to give relief to the fatigue of attention ; but this liberty 
must be taken with a sparing hand. For a florid style, and a sparkling 
manner, never fail to make the speaker be heard with a jealous ear, by 
the judge. They detract from his weight, and always produce a suspi- 
cion of his failing in soundness and strength of argument. It is purity 
and neatness of expression which is chiefly to be studied ; a style per- 
spicuous and proper, which shall not be needlessly overcharged with the 
pedantry of law terms, and where, at the same time, no affectation shall 
appear of avoiding these, when they are suitable and necessary. 

Verbosity is a common fault, of which the gentlemen of this profession 
are accused ; and into which the habit of speaking and writing so hastily, 
and with so little preparation, as they are often obliged to do, almost una- 
voidably betrays them. It cannot, therefore, be too much recommended 
to those who are beginning to practise at the bar, that they should early 
study to guard against this, while as yet they have full leisure for prepa- 
ration. Let them form themselves, especially in the papers which they 
write, to the habit of a strong and a correct style ; which expresses the 
same thing much better in a few words, than is done by the accumulation 
of intricate and endlessjperiods. If this habit once be acquired, it will 
become natural to them afterward, when the multiplicity of business 
shall force them to compose in a more precipitant manner. Whereas, if 
the practice of a loose and negligent style has been suffered to become 
familiar, it will not be in their power, even upon occasions when they 
wish to make an unusual effort, to express themselves with energy and 
grace. 

Distinctness is a capital property in speaking at the bar. This should 
be shown chiefly in two things ; first, in stating the question ; in showing 
clearly what is the point in debate ; what we admit ; what we deny ; and 
where the line of division begins between us and the adverse party. 
Next, it should be shown in the order and arrangement of all the parts of 
the pleading. In every sort of oration, a clear method is of the utmost 
consequence ; but in those embroiled and difficult cases which belong to 
the bar, it is almost all in all. Too much pains, therefore, cannot be 
taken in previously studying the plan and method. If there be indistinct- 
ness and disorder there, we can have no success in convincing : we leave 
the whole cause in darkness, 



072 ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. {LECT. XXVIIL 

With respect to the conduct of narration and argumentation, I shall, 
hereafter make several remarks, when I come to treat of the component 
parts of a regular oration. I shall at present only observe, that the nar- 
ration of facts at the bar should always be as concise as the nature of 
them will admit. Facts are always of the greatest consequence to be re- 
membered during the course of the pleading ; but, if the pleader be te- 
dious in his manner of relating them, and needlessly circumstantial, he lays 
too great a load upon the memory. Whereas, by cutting off all superfluous 
circumstances in his recital, he adds strength to the material facts ; he 
both gives a clearer view of what he relates, and makes the impression 
of it more lasting. In argumentation, again, I would incline to give scope 
to a more diffuse manner at the bar, than on some other occasions. For 
in popular assemblies, where the subject of debate is often a plain ques- 
tion, arguments, taken from known topics, gain strength by their concise- 
ness. But the obscurity of law-points frequently requires the arguments 
to be spread out, and placed in different lights, in order to be fully ap- 
prehended. 

When the pleader comes to refute the arguments employed by his 
adversary, he should be on his guard not to do them injustice, by dis- 
guising, or placing them in a false light. The deceit is soon discovered ; 
it will not fail of being exposed ; and tends to impress the judge and the 
hearers with distrust of the speaker, as one who either wants discern- 
ment to perceive, or wants fairness to admit, the strength of the reasoning 
on the other side. Whereas, when they see that he states, with accuracy 
and candour, the arguments which have been used against him, before 
he proceeds to combat them, a strong prejudice is created in his favour. 
They are naturally led to think, that he has a clear and full conception 
of all that can be said on both sides of the argument ; that he has en- 
tire confidence in the goodness of his own cause ; and does not attempt 
to support it by any artifice or concealment. The judge is thereby in- 
clined to receive much more readily, the impressions which are given him 
by a speaker, who appears both so fair and so penetrating. There is no 
part of the discourse, in which the orator has greater opportunity of 
showing a masterly address, than when he sets himself to represent the 
reasonings of his antagonists, in order to refute them. 

Wit may sometimes be of service at the bar, especially in a lively re- 
ply, by which we may throw ridicule on something that has been said on 
the other side. But though the reputation of wit be dazzling to a young 
pleader, I would never advise him to rest his strength upon this talent. 
It is not his business to make an audience laugh, but to convince the 
judge ; and seldom or never did any one rise to eminence in his profes- 
sion by being a witty lawyer. 

A proper degree of warmth in pleading a cause is always of use. 
Though, in speaking to a multitude, greater vehemence be natural ; yet 
in addressing ourselves even to a single man, the warmth which arises 
from seriousness and earnestness, is one of the most powerful means of 
persuading him. An advocate personates his client ; he has taken upon 
him the whole charge of his interests ; he stands in his place. It is im- 
proper, therefore, and has a bad effect upon the cause, if he appears 
indifferent and unmoved ; and few clients will be fond of trusting their 
interests in the hands of a cold speaker. 

At the same time, he must beware of prostituting his earnestness and 
sensibility so much as to enter with equal warmth into every cause that is 



LECT. XXVHI/j ORATION FOR CLUENTIUS. 273 

committed to him, whether it can be supposed really to excite his zeal or 
not. There is a dignity of character, which it is of the utmost impor- 
tance for every one. in this profession to support. For it must never be 
forgotten, that there is no instrument of persuasion more powerful, than 
an opinion of probity and honour in the person who undertakes to per- 
suade.* It is scarcely possible for any hearer to separate altogether the 
impression made by the character of him that speaks, from the things that 
he says. However secretly and imperceptibly, it will be always lending 
its weight to one side or other ; either detracting from, or adding to, the 
authority and influence of his speech. This opinion of honour and pro- 
bity must therefore be carefully preserved, both by some degree of deli- 
cacy in the choice of causes, and by the manner of conducting them. 
And though, perhaps, the nature of the profession may render it ex- 
tremely difficult to carry this delicacy its utmost length, yet there are 
attentions to this point, which, as every good man for virtue's sake, so 
every prudent man for reputation's sake, will find to be necessary. He 
will always decline embarking in causes that are odious and manifestly 
unjust; and, when he supports a doubtful cause, he will lay the chief 
stress upon such arguments as appear to his own judgment the most tena- 
ble ; reserving his zeal and his indignation for cases where injustice and 
iniquity are flagrant. But of the personal qualities and virtues requisite 
in public speakers, I shall afterward have occasion to discourse. 

These are the chief directions which have occurred to me concern- 
ing the peculiar strain of speaking at the bar. In order to illustrate the 
subject farther, I shall give a short analysis of one of Cicero's pleadings, 
or judicial orations. I have chosen that, pro Cluentio. The celebrated 
one, pro Milone, is more laboured and showy ; but it is too declamatory. 
That, pro Cluentio, comes nearer the strain of a modern pleading ; and 
though it has the disadvantage of being very long, and complicated too in 
the subject, yet it is one of the most chaste, correct, and forcible of all 
Cicero's judicial orations, and well deserves attention for it conduct. 

Avitus Cluentius, a Roman knight of splendid family and fortunes, had 
accused his stepfather Oppianicus of an attempt to poison him. He 
prevailed in the prosecution ; Oppianicus was condemned and banished. 
But as rumours arose of the judges having been corrupted by money in 
this cause, these gave occasion to much popular clamour, and had thrown 
a heavy odium on Cluentius. Eight years afterward Oppianicus died. 
An accusation was brought against Cluentius of having poisoned him, 
together with a charge also of having bribed the judges in the former 
trial to condemn him. In this action Cicero defends him. The accusers 
were Sassia, the mother of Cluentius, and widow of Oppianicus, and 
young Oppianicus, the son. Q,. Naso, the Praetor, was judge, together 
with a considerable number of Judices Selecti. 

The introduction of the oration is simple and proper, taken from no 
common-place topic, but from the nature ^ the cause. It begins with 
taking notice, that the whole oration of the accuser was divided into two 
parts.! These two parts were, the charge of having poisoned Oppia- 

* " Pluritnura ad omnia moment! est in hoc positum, si vir bonus creditur. Sic 
enim contingit, ut non studium advocati, videatur afferre, sed pene testis fidem." 

Qujnct. 1. iv. c i. 
t " Aniuiadverte. judices, oinnera accusatoris orationem in duas divisam esse par- 
tes : quarum altera mihi niti et magnopere confidere videbatur, invidia jam invete 
rata judicii Juniani, altera tantummodo consuetudinis causa, timido pi diffidentev 

M ra 



274 ANALYSES OF CiCEBO S [LECT. XXVM. 

nicus ; on which the accuser, conscious of having no proof, did not lay 
the stress of his cause ; but rested it chiefly on the other charge of 
formerly corrupting the judges, which was capital in certain cases, by 
the Roman law. Cicero purposes to follow him in this method, and to 
apply himself chiefly to the vindication of his client from the latter 
charge. He makes several proper observations on the danger of judges 
suffering themselves to be swayed by a popular cry, which often is raised 
by faction, and directed against the innocent. He acknowledges that 
Cluentius had suffered much and long by reproach, on account of what 
had passed at the former trial ; but begs only a patient and attentive 
hearing, and assures the judges, that he will state every thing relating to 
that matter so fairly and so clearly, as shall give them entire satisfaction. 
A great appearance of candour reigns throughout this introduction. 

The crimes with which Cluentius was charged, were heinous. A 
mother accusing her son, and accusing him of such actions, as having 
first bribed judges to condemn her husband, and having afterward poi- 
soned him, were circumstances that naturally raised strong prejudices 
against Cicero's client. The first step, therefore, necessary for the 
orator, was to remove these prejudices ; by showing what sort of persons 
Cluentius's mother, and her husband Oppianicus, were ; and thereby 
turning the edge of public indignation against them. The nature of the 
cause rendered this plan altogether proper, and insimilar situations it is fit 
to be imitated. Me executes his plan with much eloquence and force ; 
and in doing it, lays open such a scene of infamy and complicated guilt, 
as gives a shocking picture of the manners of that age ; and such as 
would seem incredible, did not Cicero refer to the proof that was taken 
in the former trial, of the facts which he alleges. 

Sassia, the mother, appears to have been altogether of an abandoned 
character. Soon after the death of her first husband, the father of 
Cluentius, she fell in love with Aurius Melinus, a young man of illustrious 
birth and great fortune, who was married to her own daughter. She 
prevailed with him to divorce her daughter, and then she married him 
herself.* This Melinus being afterward, by the means of Oppianicus, 
involved in Sylla's proscription, and put to death ; and Sassia being left, 
for the second time, a widow, and in a very opulent situation, Oppianicus 
himself made his addresses to her. She, not startled at the impudence of 
the proposal, nor at the thoughts of marrying one, whose hands had been 
imbrued in her former husband's blood, objected only, as Cicero says, to 
Oppianicus having two sons by his present wife. Oppianicus removed 
the objection by having his sons privately despatched ; and then divorcing 
his wife, the infamous match was concluded between him and Sassia. 
These flagrant deeds are painted, as we may well believe, with the 

attingere rationem veneficii crlminum ; qua\ de re lege est hsec questio constituta. 
Itaque mihi certum est hane eandem distributionem invidiam et crirainum sic in 
defensione servare, ut omnes intelligant, nihil me nee subterfugere voluisse reticen- 
do, nee obscurare dicendo." 

* " Lectum ilium genialem quem biennio ante filiae suaenubenti straverat.in eadem 
domo sibi ornari et sterni, expulsa atque exturbata filia, jubet. Nubit genero socrus, 
nullis auspieibus funestis omnibus omnium. O mulieris scelus incredibile, et prseter 
hanc unam, in omni vita inauditum ! O audaciam singularem ! non timuisse, si minus 
vim deorum,homiuumque famam,at illam ipsam noctem, facesque illas nuptiales? 
non limen cubiculi ? non cubile filiae ? non parietes denique ipsos superiorum teste 
nuptiarum ? perfregit ac prostravit omnia cupiditate et furore ? vicit pudorem libido ; 
timorem audacia ; rationem amentia." The warmth of Cicero's eloquence, which 
thi<? passage beautifully exemplifies, is here fully justified by the subject. 



XECT. XXVIH.J ORATION FOR CITJENTIUS. 273 

highest colours of Cicero's eloquence, which here has a very proper 
field. Cluentius, as a man of honour, could no longer live on any tole- 
rable terms with a woman, a mother only in the name, who had loaded 
herself and all her family with so much dishonour ; and hence the feud 
which had ever since subsisted between them, and had involved her 
unfortunate son in so much trouble and persecution. As for Oppianicus, 
Cicero gives a short history of his life, and a full detail of his crimes ; 
and by what he relates, Oppianicus appears to have been a man daring, 
fierce, and cruel, insatiable in avarice and ambition ; trained and hard- 
ened in all the crimes which those turbulent times of Marius and Sylla's 
proscriptions produced : " Such a man," says our orator, " as, in place of 
being surprised that he was condemned, you ought rather to wonder that 
he had escaped so long." 

And now, having prepared the way by all this narration, which is 
clear and elegant, he enters on the history of that famous trial in which 
his client was charged with corrupting the judges. Both Cluentius and 
Oppianicus were of the city of Larinum. In a public contest about the 
rights of the freemen of that city, they had taken opposite sides, which 
embittered the misunderstanding already subsisting between them. 
Sassia, now the wife of Oppianicus, pushed him on to the destruction of 
her son, whom she had long hated, as one who was conscious of her 
crimes ; and as Cluentius was known to have made no will, they ex- 
pected, upon his death, to succeed to his fortune. The plan was 
formed, therefore, to despatch him by poison ; which, considering their 
former conduct, is no incredible part of the story. Cluentius was at 
that time indisposed : the servant of his physician was to be bribed to 
give him poison, and one Fabricius, an intimate friend of Oppianicus, 
was employed in the negotiation. The servant having made the dis- 
covery, Cluentius first prosecuted Scamander, a freedman of Fabricius, 
in whose custody the poison was found ; and afterward Fabricius, for 
this attempt upon his life. He prevailed in both actions : and both 
these persons were condemned by the voices, almost unanimous, of the 
judges. 

Of both these prejudicial as our author calls them, or previous trials, 
he gives a very particular account : and rests upon them a great part 
of his argument, as, in neither of them, there was the least charge or 
suspicion of any attempt to corrupt the judges. But in both these 
trials, Oppianicus was pointed at plainly ; in both, Scamander and 
Fabricius were prosecuted as only the instruments and ministers of 
his cruel designs. As a natural consequence, therefore, Cluentius im- 
mediately afterward raised a third prosecution against Oppianicus 
himself, the contriver and author of the whole. It was in this prose- 
cution, that money was said to have been given to the judges ; all Rome 
was filled with the report of it, and the alarm loudly raised that no man's 
life or liberty was safe, if such dangerous practices were not checked. 
By the following arguments, Cicero defends his client against this heavy 
charge of the Crimen corrupti Judicii. 

He reasons first, that there was not the least reason to suspect it ; 
seeing the condemnation of Oppianicus was a direct and necessary 
consequence of the judgments given against Scamander and Fabricius, 
in the two former trials ; trials that were fair and uncorrupted, to the 
satisfaction of the whole world. Yet by these, the road was laid clearly 
open to the detection of Oppianicus's guilt. His instruments and minis- 



276 



ANALYSIS OF CICERO'S 



ters being once condemned, and by the very same judges too, nothing 
could be more absurd than to raise a cry about an innocent person being 
circumvented by bribery, when it was evident, on the contrary, that a 
guilty person was now brought into judgment, under such circumstances, 
that unless the judges were altogether inconsistent with themselves, it 
was impossible for him to be acquitted. 

He reasons next, that, if in this trial there were any corruption of 
the judges by money, it was infinitely more probable, that corruption 
should have" proceeded from Oppianicus than from Cluentius. For 
setting aside the difference of character between the two men, the one 
fair, the other flagitious ; what motive had Cluentius to try so odious and 
dangerous an experiment, as that of bribing judges ? Was it not much 
more likely that he should have had recourse to this last remedy, who 
saw and knew himself and his cause to be in the utmost danger, than 
the other, who had a cause clear in itself, and of the issue of which, 
in consequence of the two previous sentences given by the same judges, 
he had full reason to be confident? Was it not much more likely that 
he should bribe, who had every thing to fear ; whose life, and liberty, 
and fortune, were at stake ; than he who had already prevailed in a ma- 
terial part of his charge, and who had no further interest in the issue of 
the prosecution than as justice was concerned ? 

In the third place, he asserts it as a certain fact, that Oppianicus did 
attempt to bribe the judges ; that the corruption in this trial, so much 
complained of, was employed, not by Cluentius, but against him. He 
calls on Titus Attius, the orator on the opposite side ; he challenges 
him to deny, if he can, or if he dare, that Stalenus, one of the thirty -two 
Judices Selectiy did receive money from Oppianicus ; he names the sum 
that was given ; he names the persons that were present, when, after 
the trial was over, Stalenus was obliged to refund the bribe. This is 
a strong fact, and would seem quite decisive. But, unluckily, a very 
cross circumstance occurs here. For this very Stalenus gave his voice 
to condemn Oppianicus. For this strange incident, Cicero accounts in 
the following manner : Stalenus, says he, known to be a worthless- man, 
and accustomed before to the like practices, entered into a treaty with 
Oppianicus to bring him off, and demanded for that purpose a certain 
sum, which he undertook to distribute among a competent number of 
the other judges. When he was once in possession of the money : 
when he found a greater treasure than ever he had been master of, 
deposited in his empty and wretched habitation, he became very un- 
willing to part with any of it to his colleagues ; and bethought himself 
of some means by which he could contrive to keep it all to himself. 
The scheme which he devised for this purpose was, to promote the 
condemnation, instead of the acquittal of Oppianicus ; as, from a con- 
demned person, he did not apprehend much danger of being called 
to account, or being obliged to make restitution. Instead, therefore, 
of endeavouring to gain any of his colleagues, he irritated such as he 
had influence with against Oppianicus, by first promising them money 
in his name, and afterward telling them, that Oppianicus had cheated 
him.* When sentence was to be pronounced, he had taken measures 

* " Cum esset egens, sumptuosus, audax, callidus, perfidiosus, et cum domi sua?, 
miserrimis in locis, et inanissimis, tantum nummorum positum viderit, ad oranem 
malitiam etfraudem versare mentem suam ccepit. Demue judicibus ? mihi igitur, ipsi 
pra»tep periculum et infamiam quid quseretur ? Siquis eum forte casus es pericuto err- 



LECT. XXVIIf.j ORATION FOR CLUENTIUS. 277 

for being absent himself ; but being brought by Oppianicus's lawyers, 
from another court, and obliged to give his voice, he found it necessary 
to lead the way, in condemning the man whose money he had taken, 
without fulfilling the bargain which he had made with him. 

By these plausible facts and reasonings, the character of Cluentius 
seems in a great measure cleared ; and, what Cicero chiefly intended, 
the odium thrown upon the adverse party. But a difficult part of the ora- 
tor's business still remained. There were several subsequent decisions 
of the prastor, the censors, and the senate, against the judges in this 
cause ; which all proceeded, or seemed to proceed, upon this ground of 
bribery and corruption : for it is plain the suspicion prevailed, that if 
Oppianicus had given money to Stalenus, Cluentius had out-bribed him. 
To all these decisions, however, Cicero replies with much distinctness 
and subtilty of argument ; though it might be tedious to follow him 
through all his reasonings on these heads. He shows, that the facts were, 
at that time, very indistinctly known ; that the decisions appealed to 
were hastily given ; that not one of them concluded directly against his 
client ; and that such as they were, they were entirely brought about by 
the inflammatory and factious harangues of Quinctius, the tribune of the 
people, who had been the agent and advocate of Oppianicus ; and who, 
enraged at the defeat he had sustained, had employed all his tribuni- 
tial influence to raise a storm against the judges who condemned his 
client. 

At length, Cicero comes to reason concerning the point of law. The 
Crimen Corrupti Judicii, or the bribing of judges, was capital. In the 
famous Lex Cornelia de Sicariis, was contained this clause (which we find 
still extant, Pandect, lib. xlviii. tit. 10, § 1.) " Qui judicem corruperit, 
vel corrumpendum curaverit, hac lege teneatur." This clause, however, 
we learn from Cicero, was restricted to magistrates and senators ; and 
as Cluentius was only of the equestrian order, he was not, even suppo- 
sing him guilty, within the law. Of this, Cicero avails himself doubly ; 
and as he shows here the most masterly address, I shall give a summary 
of his pleading on this part of the cause : " You," says he to the advo- 
cate for the prosecutor, " You, T. Attius, I know, had every where given 
it out, that I was to defend my client, not from facts, not upon the footing 
of innocence, but by taking advantage merely of the law in his behalf 
Have I done so ? I appeal to yourself. Have I sought to cover him be- 
hind a legal defence only ? On the contrary, have I not pleaded his 
cause as if he had been a senator, liable, by the Cornelian law, to be 
capitally convicted : and shown, that neither proof nor probable pre- 
sumption lies against his innocence ? In doing so, I must acquaint you, 
that I have complied with the desire of Cluentius himself. For when 
he first consulted me in this cause, and when I informed him that it was 
clear no action could be brought against him from the Cornelian law, 
he instantly besought and obtested me, that I would not rest his defence 
upon that ground ; saying, with tears in his eyes, that his reputation was as 
dear to him as his life ; and that what he sought, as an innocent man, 
was not only to be absolved from any penalty, but to be acquitted in the 
opinion of all his fellow-citizens. 

puerit nonne reddendum est ? praecipitantem igitur impellamus, inquit, et perditum 
proaternamus. Capit hoc consilium et pecuniamquibus dam judicious ievissimis pol- 
liceatur, deinde earn postea supprimat ; ut quoniam graves homines sua3ponte severe 
.iudicaHtros putabat, bos qui leviores erant, destitutions iratos Oppianico redderet 



:i78 ANALYSIS OF CICERO'S [LECT. XXVIII. 

u , Hitherto, then, I have pleaded this cause upon his plan. But my client 
must forgive me, if now I shall plead it upon my own. For I should be 
wanting to myself, and to that regard which my character and station re- 
quire me to bear to the laws of the state, if I should allow any person 
to be judged of by a law which does not bind him. You, Attius, indeed, 
have told us, that it was a scandal and reproach, that a Roman knight 
should be exempted from those penalties to which a senator for corrupt- 
ing judges, is liable. But I must tell you, that it would be a much greater 
reproach in a state that is regulated by law, to depart from the law. 
What safety have any of us in our persons, what security for our rights, 
if the law shall be set aside ? By what title do you, Q,. Naso, sit in that 
chair, and preside in this judgment 1 By what right, T. Attius, do you 
accuse, or do I defend ? Whence all the solemnity and pomp of judges, 
and clerks, and officers, of which this house is full? Does not all pro- 
ceed from the law, which regulates the whole departments of the state : 
which, as a common bond, holds its members together ; and, like the 
soul within the body, actuates and directs all the public functions ?* On 
what ground, then, dare you speak lightly of the law, or move that, in 
a criminal trial, judges should advance one step beyond what it permits 
them to go ? The wisdom of our ancestors has found, that, as senators 
and magistrates enjoy higher dignities, and greater advantages than other 
members of the state, the law should also, with regard to them, be more 
strict, and the purity and uncorruptedness of their morals be guarded by 
more severe sanctions. But if it be your pleasure that this institution 
should be altered, if you wish to have the Cornelian law, concerning bri- 
bery, extended to all ranks, then let us join, not in violating the law, but 
in proposing to have this alteration made by a new law. My client, 
Cluentius, will be the foremost in this measure, who now, while the old 
law subsists, rejected its defence, and required his cause to be pleaded, 
as if he had been bound by it. But, though he would not avail himself 
of the law, you are bound injustice not to stretch it beyond its proper 
limits." 

Such is the reasoning of Cicero on this head ; eloquent, surely, and 
strong. As his manner is diffuse, I have greatly abridged it from the 
original, but have endeavoured to retain its force. 

In the latter part of the oration, Cicero treats of the other accusa- 
tion that was brought against Cluentius, of having poisoned Oppianicus. 
On this, it appears, his accusers themselves laid small stress ; having 
placed their chief hope in overwhelming Cluentius with the odium of 
bribery in the former trial ; and therefore, on this part of the cause, Cicero 
does not dwell long. He shows the improbability of the whole tale, 
which they related concerning this pretended poisoning, and makes it ap- 
pear to be altogether destitute of any shadow of proof. 

Nothing, therefore, remains but the peroration or conclusion of the 
whole. In this, as indeed throughout the whole of this oration, Cicero 

* " Ait Attius, indignum esse facinus, si senator Judicio quemquam circumvenerit 
eum legibus teneri ; si Eques Romanus hoc idem fecerit, eum non teneri. Ut tibi, 
concedam hoc indignum esse tu mihiconcedas necesse est multo esse indignius, in 
ea civitate quae legibus contineatur, discedi a legibus. Hoc nam vinculum est hujus 
dignitatis qua fruimur in republica Hoc fundamentum libertatis ; hie sons equitatis , 
mens et animus, et consilium, et sententia civitatis posita est in legibus. Ut corpora 
nostra sine mente, sic civitatis sine lege, suis partibus, ut nervis ac sanguine et mem- 
bris, uti non potest. Legum ministri, magistrates ; legum interpretes, judices, 
legum denique idcicro omnes siraus servi,ut liber esse possimus : Quid est, Q. Naso, 
cur tu in hoc loco sedeas ?" &c. 



LECT. XXVIII.] ORATION FOR CLUENTIUS. 279 

is uncommonly chaste, and, in the midst of much warmth and earnestness, 
keeps clear of turgid declamation. The peroration turns on two points ; 
the indignation which the character and conduct of Sassia ought to ex- 
cite, and the compassion due to a son, persecuted through his whole life 
by such a mother. He recapitulates the crimes of Sassia ; her lewdness, 
her violation of every decorum, her incestuous marriages, her violence 
and cruelty. He places, in the most odious light, the eagerness and fury 
which she had shown in the suit she was carrying on against her son : 
describes her journey from Larinum to Rome, with a train of attend- 
ants, and a great store of money, that she might employ every method 
for circumventing and oppressing him in this trial : while, in the whole 
course of her journey, she was so detested, as to make a solitude where- 
ver she lodged ; she was shunned and avoided by all ; her company 
and her very looks, were reckoned contagious ; the house was deem- 
ed polluted which was entered into by so abandoned a woman.* To 
this he opposes the character of Cluentius, fair, unspotted, and re- 
spectable. He produces the testimonies of the magistrates of Larinum 
in his favour, given in the most ample and honourable manner by a 
public decree, and supported by a great concourse of the most noted in- 
habitants, who were now present, to second every thing that Cicero 
should say in favour of Cluentius. 

" Wherefore, judges," he concludes, " if you abominate crimes, stop 
the triumph of this impious woman, prevent this most unnatural mother 
from rejoicing in her son's blood. If you love virtue and worth, relieve 
this unfortunate man, who, for so many years, has been exposed to most 
unjust reproach, through the calumnies raised against him by Sassia, 
Oppianicus, and all their adherents. Better far had it been for him 
to have ended his days at once by the poison which Oppianicus had 
prepared for him, than to have escaped those snares, if he must still 
be oppressed by an odium which I have shown to be so unjust. But 
in you he trusts, in your clemency, and your equity, that now, on a 
full and fair hearing of his cause, you will restore him to his honour ; 
you will restore him to his friends and fellow-citizens, of whose zeal 
and high estimation of him you have seen such strong proofs ; and 
will show, by your decision, that though faction and calumny may reign 
for a while in popular meetings and harangues, in trial and judgment, 
regard is paid to the truth only." 

I have given only a skeleton of this oration of Cicero, What I have 
principally aimed at, was to show his disposition and method : his arrange- 
ment of facts, and the conduct and force of some of his main arguments. 
But, in order to have a full view of the subject, and of the art with 
which the orator manages it, recourse must be had to the original. Few 

* " Cum appropinquare hujus judicium ei nuntiatum est, confestim hie advolavit ; 
ne aut accusatoribus diligentia, aut pecunia, testibus deessit ; aut ne forte mater hoc 
sibi optatissimum spectaculum hujus sordium atque luctus, et tand squaloris amit- 
teret. Jam vero quod iter Romam hujus mulieris fuisse existimatis ? Quod ego 
propter vi anitatem Aquinatium et Venafranorum ex multis compel : quos concur- 
sus in his oppidis ? Qmntos et virorum etinulierum gemitus ess^ factos ? Muiierem 
quandem Larino, atque illam usque a mari supero Romam proficisci cum magno 
comitatu et pecunia. quo facilius circumvenire judicio capitis, atque opprimere 
filium possit Nemo erat illorum, pcene dicam, quin expiandum ilium locum esse 
arbitraretur quacunque ilia inter iecisset ; nemo, quin terram ipsam violari, quae 
mater est omuium, vestigiis consceleratae matris putaret. Itaque nullo in oppido 
consistendi ei potestas fuit; nemo ex tot hospitibus inventus est qui non conta- 
gioneiu aspectus fugeret," 



280 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. {XECT. XXIX, 

of Cicero's orations contain a greater variety of facts and argumenta- 
tions, which renders it difficult to analyze it fully. But for this reason 
I chose it as an excellent example of managing at the bar, a complex 
and intricate cause, with order, elegance, and force. 



LECTURE XXIX. 



ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 

Before treating of the structure and component parts of a regular 
oration, I propose making some observations on the peculiar strain, the 
distinguishing characters, of each of the three kinds of public speaking. 
I have already treated of the eloquence of popular assemblies, and of 
the eloquence of the bar. The subject which remains for this lectur e 
is, the strain and spirit of that eloquence which is suited to the pulpit. 

Let us begin with considering the advantages, and disadvantages, 
which belong to this field of public speaking. The pulpit has plainly 
several advantages peculiar to itself. The dignity and importance of 
its subjects must be acknowledged superior to any other. They are 
such as ought to interest every one, and can be brought heme to every 
man's heart ; and such as admit, at the same time, both the highest em- 
bellishment in describing, and the greatest vehemence and warmth in 
enforcing them. The preacher has also great advantages in treating 
his subjects. He speaks not to one or a few judges, but to a large 
assembly. He is secure from all interruption. He is obliged to no 
replies, or extemporaneous efforts. He chooses his theme at leisure ; 
and comes to the public with all the assistance which the most accurate 
premeditation can give him. 

But, together with these advantages, there are also peculiar difficul- 
ties that attend the eloquence of the pulpit. The preacher, it is true, 
has no trouble in contending with an adversary ; but then, debate and 
contention enliven the genius of men, and procure attention. The 
pulpit orator is, perhaps, in too quiet possession of his field. His sub- 
jects of discourse are, in themselves, noble and important ; but they 
are subjects trite and familiar. They have, for ages, employed so 
many speakers, and so many pens ; the public ear is so much accus- 
tomed to them, that it requires more than an ordinary power of genius 
to fix attention. Nothing within the reach of art is more difficult, than 
to bestow, on what is common, the grace of novelty. No sort of com- 
position whatever is such a trial of skill, as where the merit of it lies 
wholly in the execution ; not in giving any information that is new, 
not in convincing men of what they did not believe ; but in dressing 
truths which they knew, and of which they were before convinced, in such 
colours as may most forcibly affect their imagination and heart.* It 

* What I have said on this snbject coincides very much with the observations 
made by the famous M. Bruyere, in his Mteurs de Siecle, when he is comparing the 
eloquence of the pulpit to that of the bar. " L'Eloquence de la chaire, en ce qui y 
entre d'humain, et du talent de l'orateur, est cachee, connue de peu de personnes, et 
d'une difficile execution. 11 faut marcher par des chemins battus, dire ce qui a ete dit . 



LEfcf. XXJX.] ELOQUENCE OF THE I'tfLPlT. ,231 

is to be considered too, that the subject of the preacher generally 
confines him to abstract qualities, to virtues and vices : whereas, that 
of other popular speakers leads them to treat of persons, which is a 
subject that commonly interests the hearers more, and takes faster hold 
of the imagination. The preacher's business is solely to make you de- 
test the crime. The pleader's to make you detest the criminal. He 
describes a living person ; and with more facility rouses your indigna- 
tion. From these causes it comes to pass, that though we have a great 
number of moderately good preachers, we have, however, so few that 
are singularly eminent. We are still far from perfection in the art of 
preaching ; and perhaps there are few things in which it is more diffi- 
cult to excel.* The object, however, is noble, and worthy, upon many 
accounts, of being pursued with zeal. 

It may perhaps occur to some, that preaching is no proper subject 
of the art of eloquence. This, it may be said, belongs only to human 
studies and inventions ; but the truths of religion, with the greater sim- 
plicity, and the less mixture of art they are set forth, are likely to 
prove the more successful. This objection would have weight, if elo- 
quence were, as the persons who make such an objection commonly 
take it to be, an ostentatious and deceitful art, the study of words and 
of plausibility only, calculated to please, and to tickle the ear. But 
against this idea of eloquence I have all along guarded. True elo- 
quence is the art of placing truth in the most advantageous light for 
conviction and persuasion. This is what every good man who preaches 
the Gospel not only may, but ought to have at heart. It is most inti- 
mately connected with the success of his ministry ; and were it needful, 
as assuredly it is not, to'reason any further on this head, we might refer 
to the discourses of the Prophets and Apostles, as models of the most 
sublime and persuasive eloquence, adapted both to the imagination and 
the passions of men. 

An essential requisite, in order to preach well, is to have a just, 
and, at the same time, a fixed and habitual view of the end of preaching. 

et ce qui 1'ou prevoit que vous allez dire : les matieres sont grandes, mait usees et 
Vriviales : les principes surs, mais dont ies auditeurs penetrent les conclusions d'une 
senile vue : il y entre des sujets qui sont sublimes, mais qui peut traiter le sublime ? 
Le Predicateur n'est point soutenucomme l'avocat par des fails to u jours nouveaux, 
pardedifferens evenernens, par des nvantures inouies : ii ne s'exerce point 3ur les 
questions douteuses ; il ne fait point valor les violentes conjectures, et les presomp- 
tions: toutes choses, neanmoins, qui 61 event le genie, lui donnent de la force, etrte 
retendue, et qui contraignent bien moins l'eloquence, qu'eiles ne le fixent, et le di- 
rigent. II doitau contraire, lirer son discours d'une source commune, et ou tout le 
monde puise ; et s'il s'ecarte de ces lieux eommuns, il n'est, plus populaire ; il est ab- 
stract ou declamateur." The inference which he draws from these reflections is very 
just : " il est plus aise de precher que de plaider ; mais plus difficile de bien precher 
que de bien plaider." Les Caracteres, ou Mosurs de ce Siecle, p. 601. 

* What I say here, and in other passages, of our being far from perfection, in the 
art of preaching, and of there being few who are so singularly eminent in it, is to be 
always understood as referring to an ideal view of the perfection of this art, which 
none perhaps, since the days of the Apostles, ever did, or ever will reach. But in 
that degree of the eloquence of the pulpit, which promotes, in a considerable mea- 
sure, the great end of edification, and gives a just title to high reputation and es- 
teem, there are many who hold a very honourable rank. I agree entirely in opinion 
with a candid judge (Dr. Campbell on Rhetoric, b. i. ch. 10) who observes, that 
considering how rare the talent of eloquence is among men, and considering all the 
disadvantages under which preachers labour, particularly from the frequency of 
this exercise, joined with the other duties of their office, to which fixed pastors are 
obliged, there is more reason to wonder that we hear so many instructive, and even 
eloquent sermons, thau that we bear so few. 

N n 



282 



ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. [LEC'f . XXIX' 



For in no -art can any man execute well, who has not a just idea 
of the end and object of that art. The end of all preaching is, to per- 
suade men to become good. Every sermon, therefore, should be a per- 
suasive oration. Not but that the preacher is to instruct and to teach, to 
reason and argue. All persuasion, as I showed formerly, is to be found- 
ed on conviction. The understanding must always be applied to in 
the first place, in order to make a lasting impression on the heart ; and 
he who would work on men's passions, or influence their practice, with- 
out first giving them just principles, and enlightening their minds, is no 
better than a mere declaimer. He may raise transient emotions, or 
kindle a passing ardour ; but can produce no solid or lasting effect. At 
the same time, it must be remembered, that all the preacher's instructions 
are to be of the practical kind ; and that persuasion must ever be his 
ultimate object. It is not to discuss some abstruse point, that he ascends 
the pulpit. It is not to illustrate some metaphysical truth, or to inform 
men of something which they never heard before ; but it is to make them 
better men ; it is to give them, at once, clear views, and persuasive im- 
pressions of religious truth. The eloquence of the pulpit, then, must 
be popular eloquence. One of the first qualities of preaching is to be 
popular ; not in the sense of accommodation to the humours and preju- 
dices of the people (which tends only to make a preacher contemptible,) 
but, in the true sense of the word, calculated to make impression on 
the people ; to strike and to seize their hearts. I scruple not therefore 
to assert, that the abstract and philosophical manner of preaching, how- 
ever it may have sometimes been admired, is formed upon a very faulty 
idea, and deviates widely from the just plan of pulpit eloquence. Ra- 
tional, indeed, a preacher ought always to be : he must give his audience 
clear ideas on every subject, and entertain them with sense, not with 
sound ; but to be an accurate reasoner will be small praise, if he be not 
a persuasive speaker also. 

Now, if this be the proper idea of a sermon, a persuasive oration „ 
one very material consequence follo\v3, that the preacher himself, in 
order to be successful, must be a good man. In a preceding Lecture, 
I endeavoured to show, that on no subject can any man be truly elo- 
quent, who does not utter the " verse voces ab imo pectore," who 
does not speak the language of his own conviction, and his own feel- 
ings. If this holds, as, in my opinion, it does in other kinds of public 
speaking, it certainly holds in the highest degree in preaching. There, 
it is of the utmost consequence that the speaker firmly believe both the 
truth and the importance of those principles which he inculcates upon 
others : and, not only that he believe them speculatively, but have a 
lively and serious feeiiiig cf them. This will always give an earnest- 
ness and strength, a fervour of piety to his exhortations, superior in 
its effects to ali the arts of studied eloquence ; and without it, the as- 
sistance of art will seldom be able to conceal the mere declaimer. A 
spirit of true piety would prove the most effectual guard against those 
errors which preachers are apt to commit. It would make their dis- 
courses solid, cogent, and useful: it would prevent those frivolous and 
ostentatious harangues, which have no other aim than merely to make 
a parade of speech, or amuse an audience ; and perhaps the difficulty 
of attaining that pitch of habitual piety and goodness, which the per- 
fection of pulpit eloquence would require, and of uniting it with that 
thorough knowledge of the world, and those other talents which are 



LECT. XXLX] ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 203 

requisite for excelling in the pulpit, as one of the great causes why so 
few Ririve at very high eminence in this sphere. 

The chief characteristics of the eloquence suited to the pulpit, as 
distinguished from the other kinds of public speaking, appear to me 
to be these two, gravity and warmth. The serious nature of the sub- 
jects belonging to the pulpit, requires gravity ; their importance to 
mankind, requires warmth. It is far from being either easy or com- 
mon to unite these characters of eloquence. The grave, when it is 
predominant, is apt to run into a dull uniform solemnity. The warm, 
when it wants gravity, borders on the theatrical and light. The union 
of the two must be studied by all preachers as of the utmost conse- 
quence, both in the composition of their discourses, and in their man- 
ner of delivery. Gravity and warmth united, form that character of 
preaching which the French call Onction ; the affecting, penetrating, 
interesting manner, flowing from a strong sensibility of heart in the 
preacher to the importance of those truths which he delivers, and an 
earnest desire that they may make full impression on the hearts of his 
hearers. tuA <* 

Next to a just idea of the nature and object of pulpit eloquence, the 
point of greatest importance to a preacher, is a proper choice of the 
subjects on which he preaches. To give rules for the choice of sub- 
jects for sermons, belongs to the theological more than to the rhetorical 
chair ; only in general, they should be such as appear to the preacher 
to be the most useful, and the best accommodated to the circumstances 
of his audience. No man can be called eloquent, who speaks to an as- 
sembly on subjects, or in a strain which none or few of them compre- 
hend. The unmeaning applause which the ignorant give to what is 
above their capacity, common sense and common probity must teach 
every man to despise. Usefulness and true eloquence always go to- 
gether ; and no man can long be reputed a good preacher who is not 
acknowledged to be a useful one. 

The rules which relate to the conduct of the different parts of a 
sermon, the introduction, division, argumentative and pathetic parts, 
I reserve till I come to treat of the conduct of a discourse in ge- 
neral ; but some rules and observations, which respect a sermon as 
a particular species of composition, I shall now give, and I hope they 
may be of some use. 

The first which I shall mention is, to attend to the unity of a sermon. 
Unity indeed is of great consequence in every composition ; but in other 
discourses, where the choice and direction of the subject are not 
left to the speaker, it may be less in his power to preserve it. In a 
sermon, it must be always the preacher's own fault if he transgress it. 
What. I mean by unity is, that there should be some one main point to 
which the whole strain of the sermon should refer. It must not be a 
bundle of different subjects strung together, but one object must predo- 
minate throughout. This rule is founded on what we call experience, 
that the mind can fully attend only to one capital object at a time. By 
dividing, you always weaken the impression. Now this unity, with- 
out which no sermon can either have much beauty, or much force, 
does not require that there should be no divisions or separate heads in 
the discourse, or that one single thought only should be, again and again 
turned up to the hearers in different lights. It is not to be understood 
in so narrow a sense : it admits of some variety ; it admits of adder- 
parts and appendages, provided always that so much union and con- 



5)34 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT, [LECT. XXIX 

nexion be observed, as to make the whole concur in some one impres- 
sion upon the mind. I may emplo}', for instance, several different 
arguments to enforce the love of God ; I may also inquire, perhaps, 
into the causes of the decay of this virtue ; still one great object is pre- 
sented to the mind ; but if, because my text says, " He that loveth God, 
must love his brother also," I should, therefore, mingle in one dis- 
course arguments for the love of God and for the love of our neighbour, 
I should offend unpardonably against unity, and leave a very loose and 
confused impression on the hearers' minds. 

In the second place, sermons are always the more striking, and com- 
monly the more useful, the more precise and particular the subject of 
them is. This follows, in a great measure, from what I was just now 
illustrating. Though a general subject is capable of being conducted 
with a considerable degree of unity, yet that unity can never be so com- 
plete as in a particular one. The impression made must always be more 
undeterminate ; and the instruction conveyed will commonly, too, be 
less direct and convincing. General subjects, indeed, such as the ex- 
cellency of the pleasures of religion, are often chosen by young preach- 
ers, as the most showy, and the easiest to be handled ; and, doubtless, 
general views of religion are not to be neglected, as on several occasions 
they have great propriety. But these are not the subjects most favoura- 
ble for producing the high effects of preaching. They fall in almost 
unavoidably with the beaten track of common-place thought. Attention 
is much more commanded by seizing some particular view of a great 
subject, some single interesting topic, and directing to that point the 
whole force of argument and eloquence. To recommend some one 
grace or virtue, or to inveigh against a particular vice, furnishes a sub- 
ject not deficient in unity or precision ; but if we confine ourselves to 
that virtue or vice as assuming a particular aspect, and consider it as it 
appears in certain characters, or affects certain situations in life, the 
subject becomes still more interesting. The execution is, I admit, more 
difficult, but the merit and the effect are higher. 

In the third place, never study to say all that can be said upon a 
subject ; no error is greater than this. Select the most useful, the most 
striking and persuasive topics which the text suggests, and rest the dis- 
course upon these. If the doctrines which ministers of the Gospel 
preach were altogether new to their hearers, it might be requisite for 
them to be exceedingly full on every particular, lest there should be any 
hazard of their not affording complete information. But it i3 much less 
for the sake of information than of persuasion, that discourses are deli- 
vered from the pulpit : and nothing is more opposite to persuasion, than 
an unnecessary and tedious fulness. There are always some things 
which the preacher may suppose to be known, and some things which 
he may only slightly touch. If he seek to omit nothing which his subject 
suggests, it will unavoidably happen that he will encumber it, and weak- 
en its force. 

In studying a sermon, he ought to place himself in the situation of a 
serious hearer. Let him suppose the subject addressed to himself : let 
him consider what views of it would strike him most ; what arguments 
would be most likely to persuade him ; what parts of it would dwell most 
upon his mind. Let these be employed as his principal materials ; and 
in these it is most likely his genius will exert itself with the greatest 
vigour. .The spinning and viredrawinsr mode, which is not uncommon 



LECT. XXIX.] ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT, 0^3 

among preachers, enervates the noblest truths. It may indeed be a 
consequence of observing the rule which I am now giving, that fewer 
sermons will be preached upon one text than is sometimes done ; but 
this will, in my opinion, be attended with no disadvantage. I know no 
benefit that arises from introducing a whole system of religious truth 
under every text. The simplest and most natural method by far, is to 
choose that view of a subject to which the text principally leads, and to 
dwell no longer on the text, than is sufficient for discussing the subject in 
view, which can commonly be done, with sufficient profoundness and 
distinctness, in one or a few discourses : for it is a very false notion to 
imagine, that they always preach the most profoundly, or go the deepest 
into a subject, who dwell on it the longest. On the contrary, that tedious 
circuit, which some are ready to take in all their illustrations, is very 
frequently owing, either to their want of discernment for perceiving 
what is most important in the subject ; or to their want of ability for 
placing it in the most proper point of view. 

In the fourth place, study above all things to render your instructions 
interesting to the hearers. This is the great trial and mark of true 
genius for the eloquence of the pulpit : for nothing is so fatal to success 
in preaching, as a dry manner. A dry sermon can never be a good one, 
In order to preach in an interesting manner, much will depend upon the 
delivery of a discourse ; for the manner in which a man speaks, is of the 
utmost consequence for affecting his audience ; but much will also depend 
on the composition of the discourse. Correct language, and elegant 
description, are but the secondary instruments of preaching in an inter- 
esting manner. The great secret lies, in bringing home all that is spoken 
to the hearts of the hearers, so as to make every man think that the 
preacher is addressing him in particular. For this end, let him avoid all 
intricate reasonings ; avoid expressing himself in general speculative 
propositions, or laying down practical truths in an abstract metaphysical 
manner. As much as possible, the discourse ought to be carried on in 
the strain of direct address to the audience ; not in the strain of one 
writing an essay, but of one speaking to a multitude, and studying to 
mix what is called application, or what has an immediate reference to 
practice, with the doctrinal and didactic parts of the sermon. 

It will be of much advantage to keep always in view the different ages> 
characters, and conditions of men, and to accommodate directions 
and exhortations to these different classes of hearers. Whenever you 
bring forth what a man feels to touch his own character, or to suit his 
own circumstances, you are sure of interesting him. No study is more 
necessary for this purpose, than the study of human life, and the hu- 
man heart. To be able to unfold the heart, and to discover a man to 
himself, in a light in which he never saw his own character before, pro- 
duces a wonderful effect. As long as the preacher hovers in a cloud of 
general observations, and descends not to trace the particular lines and 
features of manners, the audience are apt to- think themselves uncon- 
cerned in the description. It is the striking accuracy of moral charac- 
ters that gives the chief power and effect to a preacher's discourse. 
Hence, examples founded on historical facts, and drawn from real life, 
of which kind the Scriptures afford many, always, when they are well 
chosen, command high attention. No favourable opportunity of intro- 
ducing these should be omitted. They correct, in some degree, that 
disadvantage to which I before observed preaching is subject, of being; 



286 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. [LECT. XXIX. 

confined to treat of qualities in the abstract, not of persons, and place 
the weight and reality of religious truths in the most convincing light. 
Perhaps the most beautiful, and among the most useful sermons of 
i\ny, though, indeed, the most difficult in composition, are such as are 
wholly characteristical, or founded on the illustration of some peculiar 
character, or remarkable piece of history, in the sacred writings ; by 
pursuing which, one can trace, and lay open, some of the most secret 
windings of man's heart. Other topics of preaching have been much 
beaten ; but this is a field, which, wide in itself, has hitherto been little 
explored by the composers of sermons, and possesses all the advantages 
of being curious, new, and highly useful. Bishop Butler's sermon on 
the Character of Balaam, will give an idea of that sort of preaching 
which I have in my eye. 

In the fifth and last place, let me add a caution against taking the 
model of preaching from particular fashions that chance to have the 
vogue. These are torrents that swell to-day, and will have spent them- 
selves by to-morrow. Sometimes it is the taste of poetical preaching, 
sometimes of philosophical, that has the fashion on its side ; at one time 
it must be all pathetic, at another time all argumentative, according as 
some celebrated preacher has set the example. Each of these modes, 
in the extreme, is very faulty ; and he who conforms himself to it, will 
both cramp genius, and corrupt it. It is the universal taste of mankind 
which is subject to no such changing modes, that alone is entitled to pos- 
sess any authority ; and this will never give its sanction to any strain of 
preaching, but what is founded on human nature, connected with use- 
fulness, adapted to the proper idea of a sermon, as a serious persuasive 
oration delivered to a multitude, in order to make them better men. 
Let a preacher form himself upon this standard, and keep it close in his 
eye, and he will be in a much surer road to reputation, and success at 
last, than by a servile compliance with any popular taste, or transient 
humour of his hearers. Truth and good sense are firm, and will 
establish themselves ; mode and humour are feeble and fluctuating. 
Let him never follow, implicitly, any one example ; or become a servile 
imitator of any preacher, however much admired. From various ex- 
amples, he may pick up much for his improvement ; some he may 
prefer to the rest ; but the servility of imitation extinguishes all genius, 
or rather is a proof of the entire want of genius. 

With respect to style, that which the pulpit requires, must certainly, 
in the first place, be very perspicuous. As discourses spoken there, 
are calculated for the instruction of all sort3 of hearers, plainness and 
simplicity should reign in them. All unusual, swoln, or high-sounding 
words, should be avoided ; especially all words that are merely poetical, 
or merely philosophical. Young preachers are apt to be caught with 
the glare of these ; and in young composers the error may be excusa- 
ble ; but they may be assured that it is an error, and proceeds from 
their not having yet acquired a correct taste. Dignity of expression, 
indeed, the pulpit requires in a high degree ; nothing that is mean or 
grovelling, no low or vulgar phrases, ought on any account to be admit- 
ted. But this dignity is perfectly consistent with simplicity. The 
words employed may be all plain words, easily understood, and in com- 
mon use : and yet the style may be abundantly dignified, and at the 
same time very lively and animated. For a lively and animated style, is 
extremely suitedtothepulpif. The earnestness which a preacher ought to 



LECT. XXIX. j ELOyOEiSCE OF THE Pl/LPiT. 207 

feel, and the grandeur and importance of his subjects justify, and often 
require warm and glowing expressions. He not only may employ meta- 
phors and comparisons, but on proper occasions, may apostrophise the 
saint or the sinner ; may personify inanimate objects, break out into bold 
exclamations, and, in general, has the command of the most passionate 
figures of speech. But on this subject, of the proper use and manage- 
ment of figures, I have insisted so fully in former lectures, that 1 have no 
occasion now to give particular directions ; unless it be only to recall to 
mind that most capital rule, never to employ strong figures, or a pathetic 
style, except in cases where the subject leads to them, and where the 
speaker is impelled to the use of them by native unaffected warmth. 

The language of Sacred Scripture, properly employed, is a great 
ornament to sermons. It may be employed, either in the way of quo- 
tation, or allusion. Direct quotations, brought from Scripture, in order 
to support what the preacher inculcates, both give authority to his doc- 
trine, and render his discourse more solemn and venerable. Allusions 
to remarkable passages, or expressions of Scripture, when introduced 
with propriety, have generally a pleasing effect. They afford the 
preacher a fund of metaphorical expressions, which no other com- 
position enjoys, and by means of which he can vary and enliven 
his style. But he must take care that all such allusions be natural and 
easy ; for if they seem forced, they approach to the nature of con- 
ceits.* 

In a sermon, no points or conceits should appear, no affected smartness 
and quaintness of expression. These derogate much from the dignity 
of the pulpit ; and give to a preacher that air of foppishness, which he 
ought, above all things, to shun. It is rather a strong expressive style, 
than a sparkling one, that is to be studied. But we must be aware of 
imagining, that we render style strong Or expressive, by a constant and 
multiplied use of epithets. This is a great error. Epithets have often 
great beauty and force. But if we introduce them into every sentence, 
and string many of them together to one object, in place of strengthen- 
ing, we clog and enfeeble style ; in place of illustrating the image, we 
render it confused and indistinct. He that tells me, " of this perishing, 
mutable, and transitory world ;" by all these three epithets, does not give 
me so strong an idea of what he would convey, as if he had used one of 
them with propriety. I conclude this head with an advice, never to have 
what may be called a favourite expression ; for it shows affectation, and 
becomes disgusting. Let not any expression, which is remarkable for its 
lustre or beauty, occur twice in the same discourse. The repetition of it 

' Bishop Sherlock, when showing, that ilie views of reason have been enlarged, 
and the principles of natural religion illustrated, by the discoveries of Christianity, 
attacks unbelievers for the abuse they make of these advantages, in the following 
manner : " What a return do we make for those blessings we have received ? How 
disrespectfully do we treat the Gospel of Christ, to which we owe that clear light, 
both of reason andnature, which we now enjoy, when we endeavour to set upreason 
and nature in opposition to it ? Ought the withered hand, which Christ has restored 
and made whole to be lifted up against him ?" Vol. i. Disc. i. This allusion to a 
noted miracle of our Lord's, appears to me happy and elegant. Dr. Seed is remark- 
ably fond of allusions to Scripture, style ; but he sometimes employs such as are too 
fanciful and strained. As when he Seys (Semi, iv.) " No one great virtue will 
come single ; the virtue s that be her fellows will bear her company with joy and glad- 
vieM;" alluding to a passage in the XLVth Psalm, which relates to the virgins, the 
companions of the king's daughter. And (Serin, xiii.) having said, that the univer- 
sities have justly been called the eyes of the nation, he adds, ({ and if the eyes of 
Ire nation be evi-!, the vfhok body of it must be f-ull of darkness." 1 



288 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. [LEOl. XXIX. 

betrays a fondness to shine, and, at the same time, carries the appear 
snce .of a barren invention. 

As to the question, whether it be most proper to write sermons fully, 
and commit them accurately to memory, or to study only the matter and 
thoughts, and trust the expression, in part at least, to the delivery ? I am 
of opinion, that no universal rule can here be given. The choice of 
either of these methods must be left to preachers, according to their 
different genius. The expressions which come warm and glowing from 
the mind, during the fervour of pronunciation, will often have a superior 
grace and energy, to those which are studied in the retirement of the 
closet. But then, this fluency and power of expression cannot, at all 
times, be depended upon, even by those of the readiest genius ; and by 
many can at no time be commanded, when overawed by the presence of 
an audience. It is proper therefore to begin, at least, the practice of 
preaching, with writing as accurately as possible. This is absolutely- 
necessary in the beginning, in order to acquire the power and habit of 
correct speaking, nay, also of correct thinking, upon religious subjects. 
I am inclined to go further, and to say, that it is proper not only to 
begin thus, but also to continue, as long as the habits of industry last, in 
the practice both of writing, and committing to memory. Relaxation in 
this particular is so common, and so ready to grow upon most speakers 
in the pulpit, that there is little occasion for giving any cautions against 
the extreme of overdoing in accuracy. 

Of pronunciation or delivery, I am hereafter to treat apart. All that 
I shall now say upon this head is, that the practice of reading sermons, 
is one of the greatest obstacles to the eloquence of the pulpit in Great 
Britain, where alone this practice prevails. No discourse, which is 
designed to be persuasive, can have the same force when read, as when 
spoken. The common people all feel this, and their prejudice against 
this practice is not without foundation in nature. What is gained hereby 
in point of correctness, is not equal, I apprehend, to what is lost in point 
of persuasion and force. They, whose memories are not able to re- 
tain the whole of a discourse, might aid themselves considerably b}^ 
short notes lying before them, which would allow them to preserve, in 
a great measure, the freedom and ease of one who speaks. 

The French and English writers of sermons proceed upon very dif- 
ferent ideas of the eloquence of the pulpit ; and seem indeed to have 
split it betwixt them. A French sermon is, for most part, a warm ani- 
mated exhortation ; an English one, is apiece of cool instructive reason- 
ing. The French preachers address themselves chiefly to the imagi- 
nation and the passions ; the English, almost solely to the understand- 
ing. It is the union of these two kinds of composition, of the French 
earnestness and warmth with the English accuracy and reason, that 
would form, according to my idea, the model of a perfect sermon. A 
French sermon would sound in our ears as a florid, and, often, as an 
enthusiastic, harangue. The censure which, in fact, the French critics 
pass on the English preachers is, that they are philosophers and logi- 
cians, but not orators.* The defects of most of the French sermons 

* " Les Sermons sont suivant not re methode, de vrais discours oratoires ; et non 

pas, com me chez les Anglois, des discussions metaphysiques plus convenables k une 

Academie, qu'aux Assemblies populaires qui se torment dans nos temples, et qu'il 

s'agit d'instruire des devoirs du Chrelianisme, d'encourager, de consoler, d'edifier." 

Rheloricn.it Franco is c^par M. Crcvier, torn. i. p. I'M- 



LECT. XXIX.] ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 289 

are these : from a mode that prevails among them of taking their texts 
from the lesson of the day, the connexion of the text with the subject 
is often unnatural and forced ;* their applications of Scripture are fan- 
ciful rather than instructive ; their method is stiff, and cramped, by 
their practice of dividing their subject always either into three, or two 
main points ; and their composition is in general too diffuse, and con- 
sists rather of a very few thoughts spread out, and highly wrought up. 
than of a rich variety of sentiments. Admitting, however, all these 
defects, it cannot be denied, that their sermons are formed upon the 
idea of a persuasive popular oration ; and therefore I am of opinion, 
they may be read with benefit. 

Among the French protestant divines, Saurin is the most distinguish- 
ed ; he is copious, eloquent, and devout, though too ostentatious in his 
manner. Among the Roman Catholics, the two most eminent are 
Bourdaloue and Massillon. It is a subject of dispute among the French 
critics, to which of these the preference is due, and each of them has 
his several partizans. To Bourdaloue, they attribute more solidity 
and close reasoning ; to Massillon, a more pleasing and engaging manner. 
Bourdaloue is indeed a great reasoner, and inculcates his doctrines with 
much zeal, piety, and earnestness ; but his style is verbose, he is disa- 
greeably full of quotations from the fathers, and he wants imagination. 
Blassillon has more grace, more sentiment, and, in my opinion, every 
way more genius. He discovers much knowledge both of the world 
and of the human heart ; he is pathetic and persuasive ; and, upon the 
whole, is perhaps the most eloquent writer of sermons which modern 
times have produced.! 

* One of Masslllon's best sermons, that on the coldness and languor with which 
Christians perform the duties of religion, is preached from Luke iv. 18. And he 
arost out of the synagogue^ and entered into Simon's house ; and Simon's wife's mother 
was taken ill with a great fever. 

t In order to give an idea of that kind of eloquence which is employed by the 
French preachers, 1 shall insert a passage from Massillon, which, in the Encyclope- 
dic, (Article, Eloquence,) is extolled by Voltaire, who was the author of that article, 
as a chef d'ceuvre, equal to any thing of which either ancient or modern times can 
boast. The subject of the sermon is, the small number of those who shall be saved. 
The strain of the whole discourse is extremely serious and animated ; but when the 
orator came to the passage which follows, Voltaire informs us, that the whole as- 
sembly were moved; that by a sort of involuntary motion, they started up from 
their seats, and that such murmurs of surprise and acclamations arose as disconcert- 
ed the speaker, though they increased the effect of his discourse. 

" Je m'arrete k vous, mes freres, qui etes ici assembles. Je ne parle plus du resie 
des hommes ; je vous regarde comme si vous ctiez seuls sur la terre ; void la pensee 
qui m'occupe et qui m'epouvante. Je suppose que c'est ici votre derniere heure, et 
la fin de I'univers ; que les cieux vonts'ouvrir sur vostetes, Jesus Christ parcitre dan s 
sa gloire au milieu de ce temple, et que vous n'y etes assembles que pour i'attendrc, 
comme des criminels tremblans, a qui Ton va prononcer ou un sentence de grace, on 
un arret du mort eternelle. Car vous avez beau vous fiater ; vous mouriez tels que 
vous etes aujourd'hui. Tous ces desirs de changement que vous arausent, vous amu- 
seront jusqu'au lit de la mort : c'est Texperience de tous les siecles. Tout ce que 
vous trouverez alors en vous de nouveau, sera peut-etre un compte un peu plus 
grand que celui que vous auriez aujourd'hui a rendre; et sur ce que vous seriez, si 
1'on venoit vous juger dans ce moment, vous pouvez presque decider ce que vous 
arrivera au sortir de la vie." 

" Or, je vous le demande, et je vous le demande frappe de terreur, ne separant pas 
en ce point mon sort du votre, et me mettant dans la tnome disposition ou je sou- 
haitque vous entriez ; je vous demande, done, si Jesus Christ paroissoit dans ce tem- 
ple, au milieu be cette assemblee ; la plus auguste de I'univers, pour nous juger, 
pour faire le terrible discernement des boucs et des brebis, croyez vous que le plus 
grand nombre de tout ce cue now- *ommesici,fut placeala dr'olte * Crfrvev: rflfrs "rn 

O * 



290 ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. [LECT. XXIX 

During the period that preceded the restoration of king Charles II. 
the sermons of the English divines abounded with scholastic casuistical 
theology. They were full of minute divisions and subdivisions, and 
scraps of learning in the didactic part ; but to these were joined very 
warm pathetic addresses to the consciences of the hearers, in the ap- 
plicatory part of the sermon. Upon the restoration, preaching assumed 
a more correct and polished form. It became disencumbered from 
the pedantry and scholastic divisions of the sectaries ; but it threw out 
also their warm and pathetic addresses, and established itself wholly 
upon the model of cool reasoning, and rational instruction. As the dis- 
senters from the church continued to preserve somewhat of the old 
strain of preaching, this led the established clergy to depart the farther 
from it. Whatever was earnest and passionate, either in the composi- 
tion or delivery of sermons, was reckoned enthusiastic and fanatical ; 
and hence that argumentative manner, bordering on the dry and unper- 
suasive, which is too generally the character of English sermons. No- 
thingcan be more correct upon that model than many of them are ; but the 
model itself upon which they are formed is a confined and imperfect one. 
Dr. Clark, for instance, every where abounds in good sense, and the 
most clear and accurate reasoning; his applications of Scripture are 
pertinent ; his style is always perspicuous, and often elegant ; he in- 
structs and he convinces ; in what then is he deficient? In nothing, 
except in the power of interesting and seizing the heart. He shows 
you what you ought to do ; but he excites not the desire of doing it : he 
treats man as if he were a being of pure intellect without imagination or 
passions. Archbishop Tillotson's manner is more free and warm, and he 
approaches nearer than most of the English divines to the character of 
popular speaking. Hence he is, to this day, one of the best models we 
have for preaching. We must not indeed consider him in the light of a 
perfect orator ; his composition is too loose and remiss ; his style too feeble, 
and frequently too flat, to deserve that high character ; but there is in 
some of his sermons so much warmth and earnestness, and through them 

les choses du moins fussent egales ? croyez vous qu'il s'y trouvat settlement dix 
justes que le Seigneur ne peut trouver autrefois en cinq villes toutes entieres ? Je vous 
le demande ; vous l'ignorez, et je 1'ignore moi-meme. Vous seul, O mon Dieu ! con- 
noissez que vous appartiennent. — Mes freres, notre perte est presque assuree, et nous 
n'y pensons pas. Quand meme dans cette terrible separation qui se fera un jour, ii 
no devroit y avoir qu'un seul p£cheur de cette assemblee du c6te des reprouves, et 
qu'dne voix du ciel vien droit nous en assurer dans ce temple, sans le designer; qui 
de nous ne craindroit d'etre de malheureux ? qui de nous ne retomberoit d'abord, 
sur la conscience, pour examiner si ses crimes n'ont pas meritez ce chatiment ? qui 
de nous saisi de frayeur, ne demanderoit pas a. Jesus Christ comme autrefois les 
apdtres j Seigneur, ne seroit-ce pas moi ? Soratnes nous sages, mes chers auditeurs ? 
peut-etre que parmi tous ceux qui m'entendent, il ne se trouvera pas dix justes ; 
peut-£tre sen tronvera-t-il encore moins. Que sais-je ? O mon Dieu ! je n'6se regarder 
dun ceil fixe les abismesde vos jugemens. et de votre justice ; peut-etre ne s'en trou- 
vera-t-il qu'un seul ; et ce danger ne vous touche point, mon cher auditeurs ? et vous 
croyez etre ce seul heureux dans la grand nombre qui perira ? vous qui avez moins 
sujet de le croire que tout autre ; vous snr qui seul la sentence de mort devroit toraber. 
Grand Dieu ! qui Ton connoit peu dans la monde les terreurs de votre loi," &c. — 
After this awakening and alarming exhortation, the orator comes with propriety to 
this practical improvement : " Mais que conclure des ces grands verites ? qu'il faut 
desesperer de son salut ? a Dieu ne plaise ; il n'y a que l'impie, qui pourse calmer sur 
s-os desordres, tacheici de conclure en secret que tous les hommes periront comme 
lui ; ce ne doit pas etre la le fruits de ce discours. Mais de vous detromper de cette 
erreur si universelle, qu'on peut faire ce que tous les autresfont ; et que I'usage est 
une voie sure ; mais de vous convaincre que pour se sauver, il faut de distinguer des 
autres ;. etre singulier. vivre a. part a/i milieu du monde, et ne pas ressembler & la 
fbvtles Sermons de Massillon, xol; tf 



LECT. XXIX,] ELOQUENCE OP THE PULPIT. 251 

all, there runs so much ease and perspicuity, such a vein of good sense 
and sincere piety, as justly entitle him to be held as eminent a preacher 
as England has produced. 

In Dr. Barrow, one admires more the prodigious fecundity of his 
invention, and the uncommon strength and force of his conceptions, 
than the felicity of his execution, or his talent in composition. We 
see a genius far surpassing the common, peculiar indeed almost to him- 
self; but that genius often shooting wild and unchastised by any disci- 
pline or study of eloquence. 

I cannot attempt to give particular characters of that great number of 
writers of sermons which this, and the former age, have produced, 
among whom we meet with a variety of most respectable names We 
find in their composition much that deserves praise ; a great display of 
abilities of different kinds, much good sense and piety, strong reason- 
ing, sound divinity, and useful instruction ; though in general the de- 
gree of eloquence bears not, perhaps, equal proportion to the good- 
ness of the matter. Bishop Atterbury deserves being particularly men- 
tioned as a model of correct and beautiful style, besides having the 
merit of a warmer and more eloquent strain of writing, in some of his 
sermons, than is commonly met with. Had Bishop Butler, in place of 
abstract philosophical essays, given us more sermons in the strain of 
those two excellent ones, which he has composed upon self-deceit and upon 
the character of Balaam, we should then have pointed him out as dis- 
tinguished for that species of characteristical sermons which I before 
recommended. 

Though the writings of the English divines are very proper to be 
read by such as are designed for the church, I must caution them 
against making too much use of them, or transcribing large passages 
from them into the sermons they compose. Such as once indulge them- 
selves in this practice, will never have any fund of their own. Infi- 
nitely better it is, to venture into the pulpit with thoughts and expres- 
sions which have occurred to themselves, though of inferior beauty, 
than to disfigure their compositions, by borrowed and ill-sorted orna- 
ments, which to a judicious eye, will be always in hazard of discover- 
ing their own poverty. When a preacher sits down to write on any 
subject, never let him begin with seeking to consult all who have writ- 
ten on the same text, or subject. This, if he consult many, will throw 
perplexity and confusion into his ideas ; and, if he consults only one, 
will often warp him insensibly into his method, whether it be right or 
not. But let him begin with pondering the subject in his own thoughts ; 
let him endeavour to fetch materials from within ; to collect and ar- 
range his ideas; and form some sort of a plan to himself; which it is 
always proper to put down in writing. Then, and not till then, he 
may inquire how others have treated the same subject. By this means, 
the method and the leading thoughts in the sermon are likely to be his 
own. These thoughts he may improve, by comparing them with the 
track of sentiments which others have pursued ; some of their sense 
he may, without blame, incorporate into his compositions ; retaining 
always his own words and style. This is fair assistance : all be} 7 ond is 
plagiarism. 

On the whole, never let the principle with which we set out at first, 
be forgotten, to keep close in view, the great end for which a preacher 
mounts the pulpit ; even to infuse good dispositions into his hearers, 



292 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF A jLECT. XXX . 

to persuade them to serve God, and to become better men. Let this 
always dwell on bis mind when he is composing, and it will diffuse through 
his compositions that spirit which will render them at once esteemed 
and useful. The most useful preacher is always the best, and will not 
fail of being esteemed so. Embellish truth only, with a view to gain it 
the more full and free admission into your hearers' minds ; and your orna- 
ments will, in that case, be simple, masculine, natural. The best ap- 
plause by far, which a preacher can receive, arises from the serious and 
deep impressions which his discourse leaves on those who hear it. The 
finest encomium, perhaps, ever bestowed on a preacher, was given by 
Louis XIV. to the eloquent Bishop of Clermont, Father Massillon, whom 
I before mentioned with so much praise. After hearing him preach at 
Versailles, he said to him, "Father, I have heard many great orators 
in this chapel ; I have been highly pleased with them ; but for you, when- 
ever I hear you, I go away displeased with myself; for I see more of 
my own character?' 



LECTURE XXX, 



CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF A SERMON OF BISHOP 
ATTERBURY'S. 

The last lecture was employed in observations on the peculiar and 
distinguishing characters of the eloquence proper for the pulpit. But 
as rules and directions, when delivered in the abstract, are never so 
useful as when they are illustrated by particular instances, it may, per- 
haps, be of some benefit to those who are designed for the church, 
that I should analyze an English sermon, and consider the matter of it, 
together with the manner. For this purpose, I have chosen Bishop 
Atterbury as my example, who is deservedly accounted one of our 
most eloquent writers of sermons, and whom I mentioned as such in 
the last lecture. At the same time, he is more distinguished for ele- 
gance and purity of expression, than for profoundness of thought. His 
style, though sometimes careless, is, upon the whole, neat and chaste ; 
and more beautiful than that of most writers of sermons. In his senti- 
ments he is not only rational, but pious and devotional, which is a great 
excellency. The sermon which I have singled out, is that upon praise 
and thanksgiving, the first sermon of the first volume, which is reckoned 
one of his best. In examining it, it is necessary that I should use 
full liberty, and together with the beauties, point out any defects that 
occur to me in the matter as well as in the style. 

Psalm 1. 14. Offer unto God Thanksgiving. 

:t Among the many excellencies of this pious collection of hymns, for 
which so particular a value hath been set upon it by the church of God 
in all ages, this is not the least, that the true price of duties is there 
justly stated ; men are called off from resting in the outward show of 
religion, in ceremonies and ritual observances ; and taught, rather to 
practise (that which was shadowed out by these rites, and to which 
they are designed to lead) sound inward piety and virtue. 



LECT. XXX.j SERMON OP BISHOP ATT ERBURTS. 29S 

c; The several composers of these hymns were Prophets; persons, 
whose business it was not only to foretell events for the benefit of the 
church in succeeding times, but to correct and reform also what was 
amiss among that race of men with whom they lived and conversed ; 
to preserve a foolish people from idolatry and false worship ; to rescue 
the law from corrupt glosses, and superstitious abuses ; and to put men 
in mind of (what they are so willing to forget) that eternal and invariable 
rule, which was before these positive duties, would continue after them, 
and was to be observed, even then, in preference to them. 

" The discharge, I say, of this part of the prophetic office taking up 
so much room in the book of Psalms ; this hath been one reason, among 
many others, why they have always been so highly esteemed ; because 
we are from hence furnished with a proper reply to an argument com- 
monly made use of by unbelievers, who look upon all revealed religions 
as pious frauds and impostures, on the account of the prejudices they 
have entertained in relation to that of the Jews ; the whole of which 
they first suppose to lie in external performances, and then easily per- 
suade themselves, that God could never be the author of such a mere 
piece of pageantry and empty formality ; nor delight in a worship which 
consisted purely in a number of odd unaccountable ceremonies. Which 
objection of theirs, we should not be able thoroughly to answer, unless 
we could prove (chiefly out of the Psalms, and other parts of the pro- 
phetic writings) that the Jewish religion was somewhat more than bare 
outside show ; and that inward purity, and the devotion of the heart, was 
a duty then, as well as now." 

This appears to me an excellent introduction. The thought on 
which it rests is solid and judicious : that in the book of Psalms, the 
attention of men is called to the moral and spiritual part of religion '; 
and the Jewish dispensation is thereby vindicated from the suspicion of 
requiring nothing more from its votaries, than the observance of the 
external rites and ceremonies of the law. Such views of religion are 
proper to be often displayed ; and deserve to be insisted on, by all who 
wish to render preaching conducive to the great purpose of promoting 
righteousness and virtue. The style, as far as we have gone, is not only 
free from faults, but elegant and happy. 

It is a great beauty in an introduction, when it can be made to turn 
on some one thought, fully brought out and illustrated ; especially, if 
that thought has a close connexion with the following discourse, and 3 
at the same time, does not anticipate any thing that is afterward to be 
introduced in a more proper place. This introduction of Atterbury's 
has all these advantages. The encomium which he makes on the strain 
of David's Psalms is not such as might as well have been prefixed to 
any other discourse, the text of which was taken from any of the 
Psalms. Had this been the case, the introduction would have lost much 
of its beauty. We shall see from what follows how naturally the 
introductory thought connects with his text, and how happily it ushers 
it in. 

" One great instance of this proof, we have in the words now before 
us : which are taken from a Psalm of Asaph, written on purpose to set 
out the weakness and worthlessness of external performances, when 
compared with more substantial and vital duties. To enforce which 
doctrine, God himself is brought in as delivering it. Hear, O my people, 



29.fr » CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF A [LECT. XXX. 

e?id I will speak; O Israel, and I will testify against thee : / am God, even 
thy God. The preface is very^ solemn, and therefore what it ushers 
in, we may be sure, is of no common importance ; I will not reprove thee 
for thy sacrifices or thy burnt- offerings, to have been continually before me. 
That is, I will not so reprove thee for any failures in thy sacrifices and 
burnt-offerings, as if these were the only, or the chief things I required 
of thee. / will take no bullock out of thy house, nor he-goat out of thy 
folds; I prescribed not sacrifices to thee for my own sake, because I 
needed them ; For every beast of the forest is mine, and the cattle on a 
thousand hills. Mine they are, and were, before I commanded thee to 
offer them to me ; so that, as it follows, If I were hungry, yet would I not 
tell thee ; for the world is mine, and the fulness thereof But can ye be so 
gross and senseless, as to think me liable to hunger and thirst ? as to ima- 
gine that wants of tnat kind can touch me ? Will I eat the flesh of bulls 
or drink the blood of goats? — Thus doth he expostulate severely with 
them, after the most graceful manner of the eastern poetry. The issue 
of which is a plain and full resolution of the case, in those few words of 
the text — Offer unto God thanksgiving. Would you do your homage the 
most agreeable way ? would you render the most acceptable of services ? 
Offer unto God thanksgiving." 

It is often a difficult matter to illustrate gracefully the text of a ser- 
mon from the context, and to. point out the connexion between them. 
This is a part of the discourse which is apt to become dry and tedious, 
especially when pursued into a minute commentary. And therefore, 
except as far as such illustration from the context is necessary for ex- 
plaining the meaning, or in cases where it serves to give dignity and 
force to the text, I would advise that it be always treated with brevity. 
Sometimes it may even be wholly omitted, and the text assumed merely 
as an independent proposition, if the connexion with the context be 
obscure, and would require a laborious explanation. In the present 
case, the illustration from the context is singularly happy. The pas- 
sage of the Psalm on which it is founded is noble and spirited, and con- 
nected in such a manner with the text, as to introduce it with a very 
striking emphasis. On the language I have little to observe, except 
that the phrase, one great instance of this proof , is a clumsy expression. 
It was sufficient to have said^ one great proof, or one great instance m of 
this. In the same sentence, when he speaks of setting out the zveakness 
and worthlessness of external performances, we may observe, that the 
word worthlessness, as it is now commonly used, signifies more than the 
deficiency of worth, which is all that the author means. It generally 
imports, a considerable degree of badness or blame. It would be more 
proper, therefore, to say, the imperfection, or the insignificancy, of 
external performances. 

" The use I intend to make of these words, is from hesce to raise 
some thoughts about that very excellent and important duty of praise and 
thanksgiving, a subject not unfit to be discoursed of at this time : whether 
we consider, either the more than ordinary coldness that appears of late 
in men's tempers towards the practice of this (or any other) part of a 
warm and affecting devotion ; the great occasion of setting aside this 
particular day in the calendar, some years ago ; or the new instances of 
mercy and goodness, which God hath lately been pleased to bestow upon 
us ; answering at last the many prayers -and fastings, by which we have 
besought him so long for the establishment of their Majesties' throne, and 



LECT. XXX.] SE'BMON OF BISHOP ATTERBURYg. 29$ 

for the success of their arms ; and giving us in his good time, an oppor- 
tunity of appearing before him in the more delightful part of our duty, 
with the voice of joy and praise, with a multitude that keep holydays." 

In this paragraph there is nothing remarkable : no particular beauty 
or neatness of expression ; and the sentence which it forms is long and 
tiresome. — To raise some thoughts about that very excellent, #c. is rather 
loose and awkward ; — better — to recommend that very excellent, fyc. and 
when he mentions setting aside a particular day in the calendar, one 
would imagine that setting apart would have been more proper, as to 
set aside, seems rather to suggest a different idea. 

" Offer unto God thanksgiving. — Which that we may do, let us inquire 
first, how we are to understand this command of offering praise and 
thanksgiving unto God ; and then, how reasonable it is that we should 
comply with it." 

This is the general division of the discourse. An excellent one it is, 
and corresponds to many subjects of this kind, where particular duties 
are to be treated of ; first to explain, and then to recommend or enforce 
them. A divison should always be simple and natural ; and much de- 
pends on the proper view which it gives of the subject. 

" Our inquiry into what is meant here, will be very short ; for who is 
there, that understands any thing of religion, but knows, that the offering 
praise and thanks to God, implies, our having a lively and devout sense of 
his excellencies, and of his benefits ; our recollecting them with humility 
and thankfulness of heart ; and our expressing these inward affections 
by suitable outward signs, by reverend and lowly postures of body, by 
songs and hymns, and spiritual ejaculations ; either publicly or private- 
ly ; either in the customary and daily service of the church, or in its 
more solemn assemblies, convened upon extraordinary occasions ? This 
is the account which every Christian easily gives himself of it ; and 
which, therefore, it would be needless to enlarge upon. I shall only 
take notice upon this head, that praise and thanksgiving do, in strictness 
of speech, signify things somewhat different. Our praise properly ter- 
minates in God, on account of his natural excellencies and perfections ; 
and is that act of devotion, by which we confess and admire his several 
attributes : but thanksgiving is a narrower duty, and imports only a grate- 
ful sense and acknowledgment of past mercies. We praise God for all 
his glorious acts of every kind, that regard either us or other men ; for 
his very vengeance, and those judgments which he sometimes sends 
abroad in the earth ; but we thank him, properly speaking, for the in- 
stances of his goodness alone ; and for such only of these, as we ourselves 
are some way concerned in. This, I say, is what the two words strict- 
ly imply ; but since the language of Scripture is generally less exact, 
and useth either of them often to express the other by, I shall not 
think my self obliged, in what follows, thus nicely always to distinguish 
them." 

There was room here for insisting more fully on the nature of the duty } 
than the author has done under this head ; in particular, this was the 
place for correcting the mistake, to which men are always prone, of 
making thanksgiving to consist merely in outward expressions ; and for 
showing them, that the essence of the duty lies in the inward feelings of 
the heart. In general, it is of much use to give full and distinct expli- 
cations of religious duties. But as our author intended only one discourse 
on the subject, he could not enlarge with equal fulness on every part of 
it : and he has chosen to dwell on that paFt, on which indeed it is most 



296 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF A [LECT. XXX 

necessary to enlarge, the motives enforcing the duty. For, as it is an 
easier matter to know, than to practise duty, the persuasive part of the 
discourse is that to which the speaker should always bend his chief 
strength. The account given in this head, of the nature of praise and 
thanksgiving, though short, is yet comprehensive and distinct, and the 
language is smooth and elegant. 

" Now the great reasonableness of this duty of praise or thanksgiving 
and our several obligations to it, will appear if we either consider it 
absolutely in itself, as the debt of our natures ; or compare it with other 
duties, and show the rank it bears among them ; or set out, in the last 
place, some of its peculiar and proper advantages, with regard to the 
devout performer of it. J ' 

The author here enters upon the main part of his subject, the rea- 
sonableness of the duty, and mentions three arguments for proving it. 
These are well stated, and are in themselves proper and weighty con- 
siderations. How far he has handled each of them to advantage, will 
appear as we proceed. I cannot, however, but think that he has omitted 
one very material part of the argument, which was to have shown the 
obligations we are under to this duty, from the various subjects of thanks- 
giving afforded us by the Divine goodness. This would have led him to 
review the chief benefits of creation, providence, and redemption ; and 
certainly, they are these which lay the foundation of the whole argument 
for thanksgiving. The heart must first be affected with a suitable sense 
of the Divine benefits, before one can be excited to praise God. If you 
would persuade me to be thankful to a benefactor, you must not employ 
such considerations merely as those upon which the author here rests, 
taken from gratitude's being the law of my nature, or bearing a high rank 
among moral duties, or being attended with peculiar advantages. These 
are considerations but of a secondary nature. You must begin with setting 
before me all that my friend has done for me, if you mean to touch my 
heart, and to call forth the emotions of gratitude. The case is perfectly 
similar, when we are exhorted to give thanks to God ; and, therefore, in 
giving a full view of the subject, the blessings conferred on us by divine 
goodness should have been taken into the argument. 

It may be said, however, in apology for our author, that this would 
have led him into too wide a field for one discourse, and into a field also, 
which is difficulty because so beaten, the enumeration of the Divine bene- 
fits. He, therefore, seems to take it for granted, that we have upon our 
minds a just sense of these benefits. He assumes them as known and 
acknowledged ; and setting aside what may be called the pathetic part of 
the subject, or what was calculated to warm the heart, he goes on to the 
reasoning part. In this management, I cannot altogether blame him. I 
do not by an}' means say that it is necessary in every discourse to take in 
all that belongs to the doctrine of which we treat. Many a discourse is 
spoiled, by attempting to render it too copious and comprehensive. The 
preacher may, without reprehension, take up any part of a great subject 
to which his genius at the time leads him, and make, that his theme. But 
when he omits any thing which may be thought essential, he ought to 
give notice, that this is a part, which for the time he lays aside. Some- 
thing of this sort, would perhaps have been proper here. Our author 
might have begun, by saying, that the reasonableness of this duty must 
appear to every thinking being, who reflects upon the infinite obligations 
which are laid upon us. by creating, preserving, and redeeming love; and. 



LECT. XXX.] SERMON OF BISHOP ATTERBURY'S. 297 

after taking notice that the field which these open, was too wide for him 
to enter upon at that time, have proceeded to his other heads. Let us 
now consider these separately. 

" The duty of praise and thanksgiving, considered absolutely in itself, 
is, I say, the debt and law of our nature. We had such faculties bestow- 
ed on us by our Creator, as made us capable of satisfying this debt, and 
obeying this law ; and they never, therefore, work more naturally and 
freely, than when they are thus employed. 

" 'Tis one of the earliest instructions given us by philosophy, and which 
hath ever since been approved and inculcated by the wisest men of all 
ages, that the original design of making man was, that he might praise 
and honour him who made him. When God had finished this goodly frame 
of things we call the world, and put together the several parts of it, 
according to his infinite wisdom, in exact number, weight, and measure ; 
there was still wanting a creature, in these lower regions, that could 
apprehend the beauty, order, and exquisite contrivance of it ; that from 
contemplating the gift, might be able to raise itself to the great Giver, and 
do honour to all his attributes. Every thing, indeed, that God made, did, 
in some sense, glorify its Author, inasmuch as it carried upon it the plain 
mark and impress of the Deily, and was an effect worthy of that first 
cause from whence it flowed; and thus might the heavens be said, at the 
first moment in which they stood forth, to declare his glory, and the firma- 
ment to show his handy work : But this was an imperfect and defective 
glory ; the sign was of no signification here below, whilst there was no 
one here as yet to take notice of it. Man, therefore, was formed to 
supply this want, endowed with powers fit to find out, and to acknowledge 
these unlimited perfections ; and then put into this temple of God, this 
lower world, as the priest of nature, to offer up the incense of thanks 
and praise for the mute and insensible part of the creation. 

" This, I say, hath been the opinion all along of the most thoughtful 
men down from the most ancient times : and though it be not demonstra- 
tive, yet it is what we cannot but judge highly reasonable, if we do but 
allow, that man was made for some end or other ; and that he is capable 
of perceiving that end. For, then, let us search and inquire never so 
much, we shall find no other account of him that we can rest upon so 
well. If we say, that he was made purely for the good pleasure of God ; 
this is, in effect, to say that he was made for no determinate end, or for 
none, at least, that we can discern. If we say, that he was designed as 
an instance of the wisdom, and power, and goodness of God ; this, in 
deed, may be the reason of his being in general ; for 'tis the common 
reason of the being of every thing besides. But it gives no account 
why he was made such a being as he is, a reflecting, thoughtful, inquisi- 
tive being. The particular reason of this, seems most aptly to be drawn 
from the praise and honour that was (not only to redound to God from 
him, but) to be given to God by him." 

The thought which runs through all this passage, of man's being the 
priest of nature, and of his existence being calculated chiefly for this 
end, that he might offer up the praises of the mute part of the creation, 
is an ingenious thought and well illustrated. It was a favourite idea 
among some of the ancient philosophers ; and it is not the worse on that 
account, as it thereby appears to have been a natural sentiment of the 
human mind. In composing a sermon, however, it might have been 
better to have introduced it as a sort of collateral argument, or an inci- 



29 g CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF A [LECT. XXX, 

dental illustration, than to have displayed it with so much pomp, and to 
have placed it in the front of the arguments for this duty. It does not 
seem to me, when placed in this station, to bear all the stress which the 
author lays upon it. When the divine goodness brought man into ex- 
istence, we cannot well conceive that its chief purpose was, to form a 
being who might sing praises to his Maker. Prompted by infinite bene- 
volence, the supreme Creator formed the human race, that they might 
rise to happiness, and to the enjoyment of himself, through a course of 
virtue, or proper action. The sentiment on which our Author dwells, 
however beautiful, appears too loose and rhetorical, to be a principal 
head of discourse. 

" This duty, therefore, is the debt and law of our nature. And it 
will more distinctly appear to be such, if we consider the two ruling 
faculties of our mind, the understanding and the will apart, in both 
which it is deeply founded : in the understanding, as in the principle 
of reason, which owns and acknowledges it ; in the will as in the foun- 
tain of gratitude and return, which. prompts, and even constrains us to 
pay it. 

" Reason was given us as a rule and measure, by the help of which we 
were to proportion our esteem of every thing, according to the degrees 
of perfection and goodness which we found therein. It cannot, there- 
fore, if it doth its office at all, but apprehend God as the best and most 
perfect being ; it must needs see, and own, and admire his infinite per- 
fections. And this is what is strictly meant by praise ; which, therefore, 
is expressed in Scripture, by confessing to God, and acknowledging him ; 
by ascribing to him what is his due ; and as far as this sense of the 
words reaches, 'tis impossible to think of God without praising him ; 
for it depends not on the understanding, how it shall apprehend things, 
any more than it doth on the eye, how visible objects shall appear to it 

" The duty takes the further and surer hold of us, by the means of 
the will, and that strong bent towards gratitude, which the Author of 
our nature hath implanted in it. There is not a more active principle 
than this in the mind of man : and surely that which deserves its utmost 
force, and should set all its springs a-work, is God ; the great and 
universal Benefactor, from whom alone we receive whatever we 
either have, or are, and to whom we can possibly repay nothing but 
our praises, or (to speak more properly on this head, and according to 
the strict import of the word) our thanksgiving. Who hath first given to 
God, (saith the great apostle, in his usual figure) and it shall be recom- 
pensed unto him again ? A gift, it seems, always requires a recompense : 
nay, but of him, and through him, and to him are all things : of him, 
as the Author ; through him, as the Preserver and Governor: to him, as 
the end and perfection of all things : to whom, therefore, (as it follows,) 
be glory for ever, Amen VI 

I cannot much approve of the light in which our author places his 
argument in these paragraphs. There is something too metaphysical 
and refined, in his deducing, in this manner, the obligation to thanks- 
giving, from the two faculties of the mind, understanding and will. 
Though what he says be in itself just, yet the argument is not sufficient- 
ly plain and striking. . Arguments in sermons, especially on subjects 
that so naturally and easily suggest them, should be palpable and popu- 
lar ; should not be brought from topics, that appear far sought, but 
should directly address the heart and feelings. The preacher ought 



LECT. XXX.J SERMON OF BISHOP ATTERBURTTS. 3Q9 

never to depart too far from the common ways of thinking, and express- 
ing himself. I am inclined to think, that this whole head might have 
been improved, if the author had taken up more obvious ground ; had 
stated gratitude as one of the most natural principles of the human heart ; 
had illustrated this, by showing how odious the opposite disposition is, 
and with what general consent men, in all ages, have agreed in hating 
and condemning the ungrateful ; and then applying these reasonings to 
the present case, had placed in a strong view, that entire corruption of 
moral sentiment which it discovers, to be destitute of thankful emotions 
towards the supreme Benefactor of mankind. As the most natural 
method of giving vent to grateful sentiments is, by external expressions 
of thanksgiving, he might then have answered the objection that is apt to 
occur, of the expression of our praise being insignificant to the Almighty. 
But, by seeking to be too refined in his argument, he has omitted some 
of the most striking and obvious considerations, and which, properly 
displayed, would have afforded as great a field for eloquence, as the 
topics which he has chosen. He goes on, 

" Gratitude consists in an equal return of benefits, if we are able ; of 
thanks, if we are not : which thanks, therefore, must rise always in pro- 
portion as the favours received are great, and the receiver incapable of 
making any other sort of requital. Now, since no man hath benefited 
God at any time, and yet every man, in each moment of his life, is con- 
tinually benefited by him, what strong obligations must we needs be 
under to thank him ? It is true, our thanks are really as insignificant to 
him, as any other kind of return would be ; in themselves, indeed, they 
are worthless ; but his goodness hath put a value upon them : he hath 
declared, he will accept them in lieu of the vast debt we owe ; and after 
that, which is fittest for us, to dispute how they came to be taken as an 
equivalent, or to pay them 1 

" It is, therefore, the voice of nature, (as far as gratitude itself is so,) 
that the good things we receive from above should be sent back again 
thither in thanks and praises : as the rivers run into the sea, to the place 
(the ocean of beneficence) from whence the rivers come, thither should 
they return again.'' " 

In these paragraphs, he has, indeed, touched some of the considera- 
tions which I mentioned. But he has only touched them ; whereas, 
with advantage, they might have formed the main body of his argument. 

" We have considered the duty absolutely ; we are now to compare it 
with others, and to see what rank it bears among them. And here we 
shall find, that, among all the acts of religion immediately addressed to 
God, this is much the noblest and most excellent ; as it must needs be, 
if what hath been laid down be allowed, that the end of man's creation 
was to praise and glorify God. For that cannot but be the most noble 
and excellent act of any being, which best answers the end and design 
of it. Other parts of devotion, such as confession and prayer, seem not 
originally to have been designed for man, nor man for them. They 
imply guilt and want, with which the state of innocence was not ac- 
quainted. Had man continued in that estate, his worship (like the de- 
votions of angels) had been paid to Heaven in pure acts of thanksgiving ; 
and nothing had been left for him to do, beyond the enjoying the good 
things of life, as nature directed, and praising the God of nature who 
bestowed them. But being fallen from innocence and abundance ; having 
contracted guilt, and forfeited his right to all sorts of mercies ; prayer 



300 CRITICAL EXAMINATION 0£ A [LECT. XXX 

and confession became necessary, for a time, to retrieve the loss, and to 
restore him to that state wherein he should be able to live without them. 
These are fitted, therefore, for a lower dispensation ; before which, in 
paradise, there was nothing but praise, and after which, there shall be 
nothing but that in heaven. Our perfect state did at first, and will at 
last, consist in the performance of this duty ; and herein, therefore, lies 
the excellence, and the honour of our nature. 

" 'Tis the same way of reasoning, by which the Apostle hath given 
the preference to charity, beyond faith, and hope, and every spiritual 
gift. Charity never faileth, saith he ; meaning that it is not a virtue 
useful only in this life ; but will accompany us also into the next : but 
whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they 
shall cease ; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away. These 
are gifts of a temporary advantage, and shall all perish in the using. For 
we know in part, and we prophesy in part ; our present state is imper- 
fect, and, therefore, what belongs to that, and only that, must be imper- 
fect too. But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in 
part shall be done away. The argument of St. Paul, we see, which sets 
charity above the rest of Christian graces, will give praise also the pre- 
eminence over all the parts of Christian worship ; and we may conclude 
our reasoning, therefore, as he doth his : And now abideth confession, 
prayer, andjpraise, these three ; but the greatest of these is praise." 

The author, here, enters on the second part of his argument, the 
high rank which thanksgiving holds, when compared with other duties 
of religion. This he handles with much eloquence and beauty. His 
idea, that this was the original worship of man, before his fall ren- 
dered other duties requisite, and shall continue to be his worship in 
heaven, when the duties which are occasioned by a consciousness of 
guilt shall have no place, is solid and just ; his illustration of it is very 
happy ; and the style extremely flowing and sweet. Seldom do we 
meet with any piece of composition in sermons, that has more merit than 
this head. 

" It is so, certainly, on other accounts, as well as this ; particularly, 
as it is the most disinterested branch of our religious service ; such as 
hath the most of God, and the least of ourselves in it, of any we pay ; 
and therefore approaches the nearest of any to a pure, and free, and 
perfect act of homage. For though a good action doth not grow imme- 
diately worthless by being done with the prospect of advantage, as some 
have strangely imagined ; yet it will be allowed, I suppose, that its being 
done, without the mixture of that end, or with as little of it as possible, 
recommends it so much the more, and raises the price of it. Doth Job 
fear God for nought ? was an objection of Satan ; which implied that 
those duties were most valuable, where our own interest was the least 
aimed at : and God seems, by the commission he then gave Satan to try 
experiments upon Job, thus far to have allowed his plea. Now, our re- 
quests for future, and even our acknowledgments of past mercies, centre 
purely in ourselves ; our own interest is the direct aim of them. But 
praise is a generous and unmercenary principle, which purposes no 
other end to itself, but to do, as is fit for a creature endowed with such 
faculties to do towards the most perfect and beneficent of beings, and 
to pay the willing tribute of honour there, where the voice of reason di- 
rects us to pay it. God hath, indeed, annexed a blessing to the duty, and 
wben we know this, we cannot choose, while we are performing the 



LECT. XXX.] SERMON OF BISHOP ATTERBURY'S. 30i 

duty, but have some regard to the blessings which belongs to it. How- 
ever, that is not the direct aim of our devotions, nor was it the first mo- 
tive that stirred us up to them. Had it been so, we should naturally 
have betaken ourselves to prayer, and breathed out our desires in that 
form wherein they are most properly conveyed. 

" In short, praise is our most excellent work, a work common to the 
church triumphant and militant, and which lifts us up into communion 
and fellowship with angels. The matter about which it is conversant, 
is always the perfection of God's nature ; and the act itself, is the per- 
fection of ours." 

Our author's second illustration, is taken from praise being the most 
disinterested act of homage. This he explains justly and elegantly ; 
though, perhaps, the consideration is rather too thin and refined for 
enforcing religious duties : as creatures, such as we, in approaching to 
the Diviue presence, can never be supposed to lay aside all considera- 
tions of our own wants and necessities ; and certainly are not required 
(as the author admits) to divest ourselves of such regards. The con- 
cluding sentence of this head is elegant and happily expressed. 

" I come now, in the last place, to set out some of its peculiar proper- 
ties and advantages, which recommend it to the devout performer. 
And, 

" 1. It is the most pleasing part of our devotions : it proceeds always 
from a lively cheerful temper of mind, and it cherishes and improves 
what it proceeds from. For it is good to sing praises unto our God, 
(says one, whose experience, in this case, we may rely upon) for it 
is pleasant, and praise is comely. Petition and confession are the lan- 
guage of the indigent and the guilty, the breathings of a sad and contrite 
spirit ; Is any afflicted. 9 let him pray ; but, is any merry ? let him sing 
psalms. The most usual and natural way of men's expressing the 
mirth of their hearts is in a song, and songs are the very language of 
praise ; to the expressing of which they are in a peculiar manner ap- 
propriated, and are scarce of any other use in religion. Indeed, the 
whole composition of this duty is such, as throughout speaks ease and 
delight to the mind. It proceeds from love and from thankfulness ; from 
love, the fountain of pleasure, the passion which gives every thing 
we do, or enjoy, its relish or agreeableness. From thankfulness, which 
involves in it the memory of past benefits, the actual presence of them 
to the mind, and the repeated enjoyment of them. And as is its princi- 
ple, such is its end also : for it procureth quiet and ease to the mind, by 
doing somewhat towards satisfying that debt which it labours under ; 
by delivering it of those thoughts of praise and gratitude, those exulta- 
tions it is so full of: and which would grow uneasy and troublesome 
to it, if they were kept in. If the thankful refrained, it would be pain 
and grief to them : but then, then is their soul satisfied as with marrozv 
and fatness, when their mouth praiseth God with joyful lips." 

In beginning this head of discourse, the expression which the author 
uses, to set out some of its peculiar properties and advantages, would 
now be reckoned not so proper an expression, as to point out, or to 
show. The first subdivision concerning praise being the most pleasant 
part of devotion, is very just and well expressed, as far as it goes ; but 
seems to me rather defective. Much more might have been said, upon 
the pleasure that accompanies such exalted acts of devotion. It was 
a cold thought, to dwell upon its disburdening the mind of a debt, The 



302 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OF A [LECT. XXX. 

author should have insisted more upon the influence of praise and 
thanksgiving, in warming, gladdening, soothing the mind ; lifting it 
above the world, to dwell among divine and eternal objects. He should 
have described the peace and joy which then expand the heart ; the 
relief which this exercise procures from the cares and agitations of life ; 
the encouraging views of providence to which it leads our attention ; 
and the trust which it promotes in the Divine mercy for the future, by 
the commemoration of benefits past. In short, this was the place for 
his pouring out a greater flow of devotional sentiments than what we 
here find. 

V 2. It is another distinguishing property of divine praise, that it en- 
largeth the powers and capacities of our souls, turning them from low 
and little things upon their greatest and noblest object, the divine na- 
ture, and employing them in the discovery and admiration of those seve- 
ral perfections that adorn it. We see what difference there is between 
man and man, such as there is hardly greater between man and beast : 
and this proceeds chiefly from the different sphere of thought which they 
act in, and the different objects they converse with. The mind is essen- 
tially the same, in the peasant and the prince ; the force of it naturally 
equal, in the untaught man, and the philosopher ; only the one of these 
is busied in mean affairs, and within narrower bounds ; the other exer- 
cises himself in things of weight and moment ; and this it is, that puts 
the wide distance between them. Noble objects are to the mind, what 
the sunbeams are to a bud or flower, they open and unfold, as it were, 
the leaves of it ; put it upon exerting and spreading itself every way : 
and call forth all those powers that lie hid and locked up in it. The 
praise and admiration of God, therefore, brings this advantage along 
with it, that it sets our faculties upon their full stretch, and improves 
them to all the degrees of perfection of which they are capable." 

This head is just, well expressed, and to censure it, might appear 
hypercritical. Some of the expressions, however, one would think, 
might be amended. The simile, for instance, about the effects of the 
sunbeams upon the bud or flower, is pretty, but not correctly express- 
ed. They open and unfold, as it were, the leaves of it. If this is to be 
literally applied to the flower, the phrase, as St were, is needless ; if it 
is to be metaphorically understood, (which appears to be the case) the 
leaves of the mind, is harsh language ; besides that put it upon exerting 
itself, is rather a low expression. Nothing is more nice than to manage 
properly such similes and allusions, so as to preserve them perfect!}' 
correct, and at the same time to render the image lively : it might per- 
haps be amended in some such way as this : " As the sunbeams open 
the bud, and unfold the leaves of a flower, noble objects have a like effect 
upon the mind : they expand and spread it, and call forth those powers 
that before lay hid and locked up in the soul." 

" 3. It farther promotes in us an exquisite sense of God's honour, and 
an high indignation of mind at every thing that openly profanes it. For 
what we value and delight in, we cannot with patience hear slighted 
or abused. Our own praises, which we are constantly putting up, will 
be a spur to us towards procuring and promoting the Divine glory 
in every other instance ; and will make us set our faces against all open 
and avowed impieties ; which, methinks, should be considered a little 
by such as would be thought not to be wanting in this duty, and yet 
are often silent under the foulest dishonours done to religion, and its 



CECT. XXX.] SERMON OF BISHOP ATTERBURYS, 3Q3 

great Author ; fqr tamely to hear God's name and worship vilified by- 
others, is no very good argument that we have been used to honour and 
reverence him, in good earnest, ourselves." 

The thought here is well founded, though it is carelessly and loosely 
brought out. The sentence, our own praises which we are constantly 
putting up, will be a spur to us towards procuring and promoting the 
Divine glory in every other instance, is both negligent in language, and 
ambiguous in meaning; for our own praises, properly signifies the 
praises of ourselves. Much better if he had said, " Those devout 
praises which we constantly offer up to the Almighty, will naturally 
prompt us to promote the Divineglory in every other instance." 

"4. It will, beyond all this, work in us a deep humility and con- 
sciousness of our own imperfections. Upon a frequent attention to God 
and his attributes, we shall easily discover our own weakness and emp- 
tiness ; our swelling thoughts of ourselves will abate, and we shall see 
and feel that we are altogether lighter to he laid in the balance than 
vanity ; and this is a lesson which to the greatest part of mankind, is, I 
think, very well worth learning. We are naturally presumptuous and 
vain ; full of ourselves, and regardless of every thing besides, especially 
when some little outward privileges distinguish us from the rest of 
mankind ; then, 'tis odds, but we look into ourselves with great degrees 
of complacency, and are wiser (and better every way) in our own 
conceit, than seven men that can render a reason. Now, nothing will con- 
tribute so much to the cure of this vanity, as a due attention to God's 
excellencies and perfections. By comparing these with those which we 
imagine belong to us, we shall learn, not to think more highly of our- 
selves than we ought to think of ourselves, but to think soberly ; we shall 
find more satisfaction in looking upwards, and humbling ourselves 
before our common Creator, than in casting our eyes downward with 
scorn upon our fellow-creatures, and setting at nought any part of the 
work of his hands. The vast distance we are at from real and infinite 
worth, will astonish us so much, that we shall not be tempted to value 
ourselves upon these lesser degrees of pre-eminence, which custom or 
opinion, or some little accidental advantages, have given us over other 
men." 

Though the thought here also be just, yet a like deficiency in ele- 
gance and beauty appears. The phrase, 'tis odds but we look into our- 
selves with great degrees of complacency, is much too low and colloquial 
for a sermon — he might have said, we are likely, or we are prone to 
look into ourselves, — Comparing these with those which we imagine belong 
to us, — is also very careless style.— By comparing these with the virtues 
and abilities which we ascribe to ourselves, we shall learn — would have 
been purer and more correct. 

" 5. I shall mention but one use of it more, and 'tis this ; that a con- 
scientious praise of God will keep us back from all false and mean praise, 
all fulsome and servile flatteries, such as are in use among men. Prai- 
sing, as 'tis commonly managed, is nothing else but a trial of skill upon 
a man, how many good things we can possibly say of him. All the 
treasures of oratory are ransacked, and all the fine things that ever were 
said, are heaped together for his sake : and no matter whether it belongs 
to him or not ; so there be but enough on't. Which is one deplorable 
instance, among a thousand, of the baseness of human nature, of its small 
regard to truth and justice ; to right or wrong : to what is. or is not to 



304 CRITICAL EXAMINATION OP A [LECT. XXX. 

be praised. But he who hath a deep sense of the excellencies of God 
upon his heart, will make a god of nothing besides. He will give every 
one his just encomium, honour where honour is due, and as much as is 
due, because it is his duty to do so ; but the honour of God will suffer 
him to go no further. Which rule, if it had been observed, a neighbour- 
ing prince (who now, God be thanked, needs flattery a great deal more 
than ever he did) would have wanted a great deal of that incense which 
hath been offered up to him by his adorers." 

This head appears scarcely to deserve any place among the more 
important topics that naturally presented themselves on this subject ; at 
least, it had much better have wanted the application which the author 
makes of his reasoning to the flatterers of Louis XIV. ; and the thanks 
which he offers to God, for the affairs of that prince being in so low a 
state, that he now needed flattery more than ever. This political satire 
is altogether out of place, and unworthy of the subject. 

One would be inclined to think, upon reviewing our author's argu- 
ments, that he has overlooked some topics, respecting the happy con- 
sequences of this duty, of fully as much importance as any that he has 
inserted . Particularly, he ought not to have omitted the happy tendency 
of praise and thanksgiving, to strengthen good dispositions in the heart ; 
to promote love to God, and imitation of those perfections which we 
adore ; and to infuse a spirit of ardour and zeal into the whole of reli- 
gion, as the service of our benefactor. These are consequences 
which naturally follow from the proper performance of this duty ; and 
which ought not to have been omitted ; as no opportunity should be lost, 
of showing the good effect of devotion on practical religion and moral 
virtue ; and pointing out the necessary connexion of the one with the 
other. For certainly the great end of preaching is, to make men better 
in all the relations of life, and to promote that complete reformation of 
heart and conduct, in which true Christianity consists. Our author, 
however, upon the whole, is not deficient in such views of religion ; for, 
in his general strain of preaching, as he is extremely pious, so he is, at 
the same time, practical and moral. 

His summing up of the whole argument, in the next paragraph, is 
elegant and beautiful ; and such concluding views of the subject are 
frequently very proper and useful : " Upon these grounds doth the duty 
of praise stand, and these are the obligations that bind us to the perfor- 
mance of it. 'Tis the end of our being, and the very rule and law of 
our nature ; flowing from the two great fountains of human action, the 
understanding, and the will, naturally, and almost necessarily. It is the 
most excellent part of our religious worship ; enduring to eternity, after 
the rest shall be done away ; and paid, even now in the frankest manner, 
with the least regard to our own interest. It recommends itself to 
us by several peculiar properties and advantages ; as it carries more 
pleasure in it, than all other kinds of devotion ; as it enlarges and exalts 
the several powers of the mind ; as it breeds in us an exquisite sense 
of God's honour, and a willingness to promote it in the world ; as it 
teaches us to be humble and lowly ourselves, and yet preserves us from 
base and sordid flattery, from bestowing mean and undue praises upon 
others." 

After this, our author addresses himself to two classes of men, the 
careless and the profane. His address to the careless is beautiful and 
pathetic ; that to the profane is not so well executed, and is liable to 



LECT. XXXI.'J INTRODUCTION OF A DISCOURSE. 305 

some objection. Such addresses appear to me to be, on several occasions, 
very useful parts of a discourse. They prevailed much in the strain 
of preaching before the restoration ; and perhaps, since that period, 
have been too much neglected. They afford an opportunity of bring- 
ing home to the consciences of the audience, many things, which, in the 
course of the sermon, were perhaps delivered in the abstract. 

I shall not dwell on the conclusion of the sermon, which is chiefly 
employed in observations on the posture of public affairs at that time. 
Considered upon the whole, this discourse of Bishop Atterbury's is both 
useful and beautiful ; though I have ventured to point out some defects 
in it. Seldom, or never, can we expect to meet with a composition of 
any kind, which is absolutely perfect in ail its parts ; and when we take 
into account the difficulties which I before showed to attend the elo- 
quence of the pulpit, we have, perhaps, less reason to look for perfec- 
tion in a sermon, than in any other composition. 



LECTURE XXXL 



CONDUCT OF A DISCOURSE IN ALL ITS PARTS.— INTRODUCTION, 
DIVISION, NARRATION AND EXPLICATION. 

I have, in the four preceding lectures, considered what is peculiar to 
each of the three great fields of public speaking, popular assemblies, the 
bar, and the pulpit. I am now to treat of what is common to them 
all ; of the conduct of a discourse or oration, in general. The previous 
view which I have given of the distinguishing spirit and character of 
different kinds of public speaking, was necessary for the proper appli- 
cation of the rules which I am about to deliver ; and as I proceed, I 
shall further point out, how far any of these rules may have a particular 
respect to the bar, to the pulpit, or to popular courts. 

On whatever subject any one intends to discourse, he will most com- 
monly begin with some introduction, in order to prepare the minds of 
his hearers ; he will then state his subject, and explain the facts connect- 
ed with it ; he will employ arguments for establishing his own opinion, 
and overthrowing that of his antagonist ; he may, perhaps, if there be 
room for it, endeavour to touch the passions of his audience ; and after 
having said all he thinks proper, he will bring his discourse to a close, 
by some peroration or conclusion. This being the natural train of speak- 
ing, the parts that compose a regular formal oration, are these six ; first, 
the exordium or introduction ; secondly , the state, and the division of the 
subject ; thirdly, narration or explication ; fourthly, the reasoning or 
•arguments ; fifthly, the pathetic part ; and lastly, the conclusion. I do 
not mean that each of these must enter into every public discourse, or 
that they must enter always in this order. There is no reason for being 
so formal on every occasion ; nay, it would often be a fault, and would 
render a discourse pedantic and stiff. There may be many excellent 
discourses in public, where several of these parts are altogether wanting ; 
where the speaker, for instance, uses no introduction, but enters directly 
on his subject ; where he has no occasion either to divrde or explain ; 



306 LYiRODUCTJOA OF A DISCOURSE. |_LECT. XXXI. 

but simply reasons on one side of the question, and then finishes. But 
as the parts, which I have mentioned, are the natural constituent parts 
of a regular oration ; and as in every discourse whatever, some of them 
must be found, it is necessary to our present purpose, that I should treat 
of each of them distinctly. 

I begin, of course, with the exordium or introduction. This is mani- 
festly common to all the three kinds of public speaking. It is not a 
rhetorical invention. It is founded upon nature, and suggested by com- 
mon sense. When one is going to counsel another, when he takes upon 
him to instruct, or to reprove, prudence will generally direct him not to 
do it abruptly, but to use some preparation ; to begin with somewhat 
that may incline the persons, to whom he addresses himself, to judge 
favourably of what he is about to say ; and may dispose them to such a 
train of thought, as will forward and assist the purpose which he has in 
view. This is, or ought to be, the main scope of an introduction. Ac- 
cordingly Cicero and Quintilian mention three ends, to one or other of 
which it should be subservient, " Reddere auditores benevolos, attentos, 
dociles." 

First, to conciliate the good will of the hearers ; to render them be- 
nevolent, or well-affected to the speaker and to the subject. Topics foF 
this purpose may, in causes at the bar, be sometimes taken from the par- 
ticular situation of the speaker himself, or of his client, or from the 
character or behaviour of his antagonists contrasted with his own ; on 
other occasions, from the nature of the subject, as closely connected with 
the interest of the hearers : and, in general, from the modesty and good 
intention, with which the speaker enters upon his subject. The second 
end of an introduction, is to raise the attention of the hearers ; which 
may be effected, by giving them some hints of the importance, dignity, or 
novelty of the subject ; or some favourable view of the clearness and 
precision with which we are to treat it ; and of the brevity with which 
we are to discourse. The third end, is to render the hearers docile, or 
open to persuasion ; for which end, we must begin with studying to 
remove any particular prepossessions they may have contracted against 
the cause, or side of the argument which we espouse. 

Some one of these ends should be proposed by every introduction. 
When there is no occasion for aiming at any of them ; when we are 
already secure of the good will, the attention, and the docility of the 
audience, as may often be the case, formal introductions may, without 
any prejudice, be omitted. And, indeed, when they serve for no purpose 
but mere ostentation, they had, for the most part, better be omitted ; 
unless as far as respect to the audience makes it decent, that a speaker 
should not break in upon them too abruptly, but by a short exordium 
prepare them for what he is going to say. Demosthenes's introductions 
are always short and simple ; Cicero's are fuller and more artful. 

The ancient critics distinguished two kinds of introductions, which 
they call Principium, and Insinuatio. Principium is, where the 
orator plainly and directly professes his aim in speaking. Insinuatio 
is, where a larger compass must be taken ; and where, presuming the 
disposition of the audience to be much against the orator, he must gra- 
dually reconcile them to hearing him, before he plainly discovers the 
point which he has in view. 

Of this latter sort of introduction, we have an admirable instance in 
Cicero's second oration against Rulhis, This Rullus was tribune of 



LECT. XXXI.] INTRODUCTION OF A DISCOURSE 307 

the people, and had proposed an Agrarian Law ; the purpose of which 
was to create a Decemvirate, or ten commissioners, with absolute power 
for five years over all the lands conquered by the republic, in o rder 
to divide them among the citizens. Such laws had often been proposed 
by factious magistrates, and were always greedily received by the peo- 
ple. Cicero is speaking to the people ; he had lately been made consul 
by their interest ; and his first attempt is to make them reject this law. 
The subject was extremely delicate, and required much art. He begins 
with acknowledging all the favours which he had received from the peo- 
ple, in preference to the nobility. He professes himself the creature 
of their power, and of all men the most engaged to promote their in- 
terest. He declares, that he held himself to be the consul of the people ; 
and that he would always glory in preserving the character of a popu- 
lar magistrate. But to be popular, he observes, is an ambiguous word. 
He understood it to import, a steady attachment to the real interest of 
the people, to their liberty, their ease, and their peace ; but by some, 
he saw, it was abused, and made a cover to their own selfish and 
ambitious designs. In this manner, he begins to draw gradually nearer 
to his purpose of attacking the proposal of Rullus ; but still with great 
management and reserve. He protests, that he is far from being an 
enemy to Agrarian Laws ; he gives the highest praises to the Gracchi, 
those zealous patrons of the people ; and assures them, that when he 
first heard of Rullus's law, he had resolved to support it if he found it 
for their interest ; but that, upon examining it, he found it calculated 
to establish a dominion that was inconsistent with liberty, and to aggran- 
dize a few men at the expense of the public ; and then terminates his 
exordium, with telling them that he is going to give his reasons for being 
of this opinion ; but that if his reasons shall not satisfy them, he will 
give up his own opinion and embrace theirs. In all this, there was 
great art. His eloquence produced the intended effect ; and the peo- 
ple, with one voice, rejected this Agrarian Law. 

Having these general views of the nature and end of an intro- 
duction, I proceed to lay down some rules for the proper composition 
of it. These are the more necessary, as this is a part of the discourse 
which requires no small care. It is always of importance to begin 
well ; to make a favourable impression at first setting out ; when the 
minds of the hearers, vacant as yet and free, are most disposed to re- 
ceive any impression easily. I must add, too, that a good introduction 
is often found to be extremely difficult. Few parts of the discourse 
give the composer more trouble, or are attended with more nicety in 
the execution. 

The first rule is, that the introduction should be easy and natural. 
The subject must always suggest it. It must appear as Cicero beauti- 
fully expresses it, " Effloruisse penitus ex re de qua turn agitur."* It is 
too common a fault in introductions, that they are taken from some com- 
mon-place topic, which has no peculiar relation to the subject in hand : 
by which means they stand apart, like pieces detached from the rest 
of the discourse. Of this kind are Sallust's introductions prefixed to 
his Catilinarian and Jugurthine wars. They might as well have been 
introductions to any other history, or to any other treatise whatever 3 

1 " To have sprung up, of its own accord, from (he matter which is under con- 
sideration. " 



308 DSTJEtOBTTCTiON OF A ©ISCGUBSE. [LECT. XXXI. 

and therefore, though elegant in themselves, they must be considered 
a- blemishes in the work, for want of due connexion with it. Cicero, 
though abundantly correct in this particular in his orations, yet is not 
so in his other works. It appears from a letter of his to Atticus, 
(L. xvi. 6.) that it was his custom to prepare, at his leisure, a collection 
of different introductions or prefaces, ready to be prefixed to any work 
that he might afterward publish. In consequence of this strange 
method of composing, it happened to him to employ the same intro- 
duction twice, without remembering it ; prefixing it to two different 
works. Upon Atticus informing him of this, he acknowledges the mis- 
take, and sends him a new introduction. 

In order to render introductions natural and easy, it is, in my opinion, 
a good rule, that they should not be planned, till after one has meditated 
in his own mind the substance of his discourse. Then, and not till then, 
he should begin to think of some proper and natural introduction. By 
taking a contrary course, and labouring in the first place on an intro- 
duction, every one who is accustomed to composition will often find, 
that either he is led to lay hold of some common-place topic, or that, 
instead of the introduction being accommodated to the discourse, he is 
obliged to accommodate the whole discourse to the introduction which 
he had previously written. Cicero makes this remark ; though, as we 
have seen, his practice was not always conformable to his own rule. 
" Omnibus rebus consideratis, turn denique id quod primum est dicen- 
dum, postremum soleo cogitare, quo utar exordio. Nam si quando id 
primum invenire volui, nullum mini occurrit, nisi aut exile, aut nugato- 
rium, aut vulgare."* After the mind has been once warmed and put in 
train, by close meditation on the subject, materials for the preface will 
then suggest themselves much more readily. 

In the second place, in an introduction, correctness should be care- 
fully studied in the expression. This is requisite on account of the 
situation of the hearers. They are then more disposed to criticise than 
at any other period ; they are, as yet, unoccupied with the subject or 
the arguments ; their attention is wholly directed to the speaker's style 
and manner. Something must be done, therefore, to prepossess them 
in his favour ; though, for the same reasons, too much art must be 
avoided ; for it will be more easily detected at that time, than after- 
ward ; and will derogate from persuasion in all that follows. A cor- 
rect plainness, and elegant simplicity, is the proper character of an 
introduction : " ut videamur," says Quintilian, " accurate non callide 
dicere." 

In the third place, modesty is another character which it must carry. 
All appearances of modesty are favourable and prepossessing. If the 
orator set out with an air of arrogance and ostentation, the self-love and 
pride of the hearers will be presently awakened, and will follow him 
with a very suspicious eye throughout all his progress. His modesty 
should discover itself not only in his expressions at the beginning, but in 
his whole manner : in his looks, in his gestures, in the tone of his voice. 
Every auditory take in good part those marks of respect and awe, which 
are paid to them by one who addresses them. Indeed the modesty of 

* ll When I have planned and digested all the materials of my discourse, it is my 
custom to think, in tbe last place, of the introduction with which J am to begin. For 
if at any time, I have endeavoured to invent an introduction at first, nothing has 
ever occurred to me for that purpose^, but what was trifling, nugatory, and v-algnr." 



LECT, XXXI.] INTRODUCTION OF A DISCOURSE', 309 

an introduction should never betray any thing mean or abject. It is 
always of great use to an orator, that together with modesty and defe- 
rence to his hearers, he should show a certain sense of dignity, arising 
from a persuasion of the justice or importance of the subject on which 
he is to speak. 

The modesty of an introduction requires, that it promise not too 
much. " Non fumum ex fulgore, sed ex fumo dare lucem."* This cer- 
tainly is the general rule, that an orator should not put forth al! his 
strength at the heginning, but should rise and grow upon us,* as his dis- 
course advances. There are cases, however, in which it is allowable 
for him to set out from the. first in a high and bold tone ; as. for instance, 
when he rises to defend some cause which has been much run down, 
and decried by the public. Too modest a beginning might be then like 
a confession of guilt. By the boldness and strength of his exordium, he 
must endeavour to stem the tide that is against him, and to remove pre- 
judices, by encountering them without fear. In subjects too of a de- 
clamatory nature, and in sermons, where the subject is striking, a mag- 
nificent introduction has sometimes a good effect, if it be properly sup- 
ported in the sequel. Thus Bishop Atterbury, in beginning an eloquent 
sermon, preached on the 30th of January, the anniversary of what is call- 
ed King Charles's Martyrdom, sets out in this pompous manner : " This 
is a day of trouble, of rebuke, and of blasphemy ; distinguished in the 
calendar of our church, and the annals of our nation, by the sufferings 
of an excellent prince, who fell a sacrifice to the rage of his rebel- 
lious subjects ; and, by his fall, derived infamy, misery, and guilt on 
them, and their sinful posterity." Bossuet, Flechier, and the other 
celebrated French preachers, very often begin their discourses with 
laboured and sublime introductions. These raise attention, and throw a 
lustre on the subject ; but let every speaker be much on his guard 
against striking a higher note at the beginning, than he is able to keep 
up in his progress. 

In the fourth place, an introduction should usually be carried on in the 
calm manner. This is seldom the place for vehemence and passion. 
Emotion must rise as the discourse advances. The minds of the hear- 
ers must be gradually prepared, before the speaker can venture on 
strongand passionate sentiments. The exceptions to this rule are, when 
the subject is such, that the very mention of it naturally awakens some 
passionate emotion ; or when the unexpected presence of some person 
or object, in a popular assembly, inflames the speaker, and makes him 
break forth with unusual warmth. Either of these will justify what is 
called the Exordium ab abrupto. Thus the appearance of Catiline in the 
senate renders the vehement beginning of Cicero's first oration against 
him very natural and proper : " Quousque tandem, Catilina, abutere 
patientia nostra ?" And thus Bishop Atterbury, in preaching from this 
text, " Blessed is he, whosoever shall not be offended in me," ventures 
on breaking forth with this bold exordium : " And can any man then be 
offended in thee, blessed Jesus ?" which address to our Saviour he con- 
tinues for a page or two, till he enters on the division of his subject. 
But such introductions as these should be hazarded by very few, as they 

- He does not lavish at a blaze his fire, 
Sudden to glare, and then in smoke expire; 
But rises from a cloud of smoke to light, 
And pours his specious miracles to sight. 

Hop., Ars Pokt. Ffunctp 



10 INTRODUCTION OF A DISCOURSE, [LECT, XXXJ : 



promise so much vehemence and unction through the rest of the dis- 
course, that it is very difficult to fulfil the expectations of the hearers. 

At the same time, though the introduction is not the place in which 
warm emotions are usually to be attempted, yet I must take notice, that 
it ought to prepare the way for such as are designed to be raised in sub- 
sequent parts of the discourse. The orator should, in the beginning, 
turn the minds of his hearers towards those sentiments and feelings, 
which he seeks to awaken in the course of his speech. According, for 
instance, as it is compassion, or indignation, or contempt, on which his 
discourse is to rest, he ought to sow the seeds of these in his introduc- 
tion ; he ought to begin with breathing that spirit which he means to 
inspire. Much of the orator's art and ability is shown, in thus striking 
properly at the commencement, the key note, if we may so express it. 
of the rest of his oration. 

In the fifth place, it is a rule in introductions, not to anticipate any 
material part of the subject. When topics, or arguments, which are 
afterward to be enlarged upon, are hinted at, and, in part, brought 
forth in the introduction, they lose the grace of novelty upon their second 
appearance. The impression intended to be made by any capital 
thought, is always made with the greatest advantage, when it is made en- 
tire, and in its proper place. 

In the last place, the introduction ought to be proportioned, both in 
length and in kind, to the discourse that is to follow : in length, as 
nothing can be more absurd than to erect a very great portico before a 
small building ; and in kind, as it is no less absurd to overcharge, with 
superb ornaments, the portico of a plain dwelling-house, or to make 
the entrance to a monument as gay as that to an arbour. Common sense 
directs, that every part of a discourse should be suited to the strain and 
spirit of the whole. 

These are the principal rules that relate to introductions. They are 
adapted, in a great measure, equally to discourses of all kinds. In 
pleadings at the bar, or speeches in public assemblies, particular care 
must be taken not to employ any introduction of that kind, which the ad- 
verse party may lay hold of, and turn to his advantage. To this inconve- 
nience, all those introductions are exposed, which are taken from general 
and common-place topics ? and it never fails to give an adversary a con- 
siderable triumph, if, by giving a small turn to something we had said in 
our exordium, he can appear to convert, to his own favour, the prin- 
ciples with which we had set out, in beginning our attack upon him. In 
the case of replies, Quintilian makes an observation which is very worthy 
of notice ; that introductions, drawn from something that has been said in 
the course of the debate, have always a peculiar grace ; and the reason 
he gives for it is just and sensible : " Multum gratiae exordio est, quod ab 
actione diversse partis materiam trahit ; hoc ipso, quod non compositum 
domi,sed ibiatquee re natum ; et facilitate faraatn ingenii auget ; et facie 
simplicis, sumptiquee proximo sermonis, fidem quoque acquirit ; adeo, 
ut etiamsi reliqua scripta atque elaborata sint, tamen videatur tota es- 
temporalis oratio. cujus initium nihil preparatum habuisse, manifestum 
est.*'* 

* "An introduction, which is founded upon the pleading of the opposite party, is 
extremely graceful ; for this reason, that it appears not to have been meditated at 
home, but to have taken rise from the business, and to have been composed on the 
spot. " Hence, it gives to the speaker the reputation of a quick invention, and adds 
weight likewise to his discourse, as artless and unlaboured ; insomuch, that, though 



LECT. XXXI.] DIVISION OF A DISCOURSE, SI 1 

In sermons, such a practice as this cannot take place ; and, indeed, in 
composing sermons, few things are more difficult than to remove an 
appearance of stiffness from an introduction, when a formal one is used. 
The French preachers, as I before observed, are often very splendid 
and lively in their introductions ; but, among us, attempts of this kind 
are not always so successful, When long introductions are formed upon 
some common-place topic, as the desire of happiness being natural to 
man, or the like, they never fail of being tedious. Variety should be 
studied in this part of composition as much as possible ; often it may be 
proper to begin without any introduction at all, unless, perhaps, one or 
two sentences. Explanatory introductions from the context, are the most 
simple of any, and frequently the best that can be used ; but as they are 
in hazard of becoming dry, they should never be long. A historical 
introduction has, generally, a happy effect to rouse attention ; when one 
can lay hold upon some noted fact that is connected with the text or the 
discourse, and, by a proper illustration of it, open the way to the subject 
that is to be treated of. 

After the introduction, what commonly comes next in order, is the 
proposition, or enunciation of the subject ; concerning which there is 
nothing-to be said, but that it should be as clear and distinct as possible, 
and expressed in few and plain words, without the least affectation. To 
this generally succeeds the division, or the laying down the method of 
the discourse ; on which it is necessary to make some observations. I 
do not mean that in every discourse, a formal division or distribution of 
it into parts, is requisite. There are many occasions of public speaking 
when this is neither requisite nor would be proper ; when the discourse, 
perhaps, is to be short, or only one point is to be treated of; or when 
the speaker does not choose to warn his hearers of the method he is to 
follow, or of the conclusion to which he seeks to bring them. Order of 
one kind or other is, indeed, essential to every good discourse ; that is, 
every thing should be so arranged, as that what goes before may give 
light and force to what follows. But this may be accomplished by means 
of a concealed method. What we call division is, when the method is 
propounded in form to the hearers. 

The discourse in which this sort of division most commonly takes place, 
is a sermon ; and a question has been moved, whether this method of 
laying down heads, as it is called, be the best method of preaching. A 
very able judge, the Archbishop of Cambray, in his Dialogues on Elo- 
quence, declares strongly against it. He observes, that it is a modern 
invention ; that it was never practised by the Fathers of the church ; and, 
what is certainly true, that it took its rise from the schoolmen, when 
metaphysics began to be introduced into preaching. He is of opinion, 
that it renders a sermon stiff; that it breaks the unity of the discourse ; 
and that, by the natural connexion of one part with another, the attention 
of the hearers would be carried along the whole with more advantage. 

But notwithstanding his authority and his arguments, i cannot help 
being of opinion, that the present method of dividing a sermon into heads, 
ought not to be laid aside. Established practice has now given it so 
much weight, that, were there nothing more in its favour, it would be 
dangerous for any preacher to deviate so far from the common track. 

all the rest of his orations should be studied and written, yet the whole discourse 
has the appearance of being extemporary, as it is evident that the introduction to it 
was unpremeditated " 



312 DIVISION OF A DISCOURSE. [LECT. XXX£ 

But the practice itself has also, in my judgment, much reason on its side. 
If formal partitions give a sermon less of the oratoria! appearance, they 
render it, however, more clear, more easily apprehended, and, of course, 
more instructive to the bulk of hearers, which is always the main object 
to be kept in view. The heads of a sermon are great assistances to the 
memory and recollection of a hearer. They serve also to fix his atten- 
tion. They enable him more easily to keep pace with the progress of 
the discourse ; they give him pauses and resting-places, where he can 
reflect on what has been said, and look forward to what is to follow. 
They are attended with this advantage too, that they give the audience 
the opportunity of knowing, beforehand, when they are to be released 
from the fatigue of attention, and thereby make them follow the speaker 
more patiently ; " Reficit audientem," says Quintilian, taking notice of 
this very advantage of divisions in other discourses, " Reficit audientem 
certo singularum partium fine ; non aliter quam facientibus iter, multum 
detrahunt fatigationes notata spatia inscriptis lapidibus : nam et exhausti 
laboris nosse mensuram voluptati est ; et hortatur ad reliqua fortius 
exequenda, scire quantum supersit."* With regard to breaking the unity 
of a discourse, I cannot be of opinion that there arises, from that quarter, 
anj' argument against the method I am defending. If the unity be feroken, 
it is to the nature of the heads, or topics of which the speaker treats, 
that this is to be imputed ; not to his laying them down in form. On the 
contrary, if his heads be well chosen, his marking them out, and distin- 
guishing them, in place of impairing the unity of the whole, renders it 
more conspicuous and complete ; by showing how all the parts of a dis- 
course hang upon one another, and tend to one point. 

In a sermon, or in a pleading, or any discourse, where division is 
proper to be used, the most material rules are, 

First, That the several parts into which the subject is divided be really 
distinct from one another ; that is, that no one include another. It were 
a very absurd division, for instance, if one should propose to treat first, 
of the advantages of virtue, and next., of those of justice ortemperance ; 
because the first head evidently comprehends the second, as a genus does 
the species ; which method of proceeding involves the subject in indis- 
tinctness and disorder. 

Secondly, In division, we must take care to follow the order of nature ; 
beginning with the simplest points, such as are easiest apprehended, and 
necessary to be first discussed ; and proceeding thence to those which 
are built upon the former, and which suppose them to be known. We 
must divide the subject into those parts, into which most easily and 
naturally it is resolved ; that the subject may seem to split itself, and 
not to be violently torn asunder : " Dividere," as is commonly said, 
" nonfrangere." 

Thirdly, The several members of a division ought to exhaust the 
subject ; otherwise we do not make a complete division ; we exhibit the 
subject by pieces and corners only, without giving any such plan as 
displays the whole. 

Fourthly, The terms in which our partitions are expressed, should 
be as concise as possible. Avoid all circumlocution here. Admit not a 

>; " The conclusion of each head is a relief to the hearers; just as, upon a journey, 
the mile-stones, which are set upon the road, serve to diminish the traveller's fatigue, 
For we are always pleased with seeing our labour begin to lessen ; and, by calcu 
feting how much remains., are stirred up to finish oar task more cheerfully," 






LECT. XXXI.] NARRATION AND EXPLICATE. 3J3 



single word but what is necessary. Precision is to be studied, above all 
things, in laying down a method. It is this which chiefly makes a divi- 
sion appear neat and elegant ; when the several heads are propounded 
in the clearest, most expressive, and, at the same time, the fewest 
words possible. This never fails to strike the hearers agreeably ; and 
is, at the same time, of great consequence towards making the divisions 
be more easily remembered. 

Fifthly, Avoid an unnecessary multiplication of heads. To split a 
subject into a great many minute parts, by divisions and subdivisions 
without end, has always a bad effect in speaking. It may be proper in 
a logical treatise ; but it makes an oration appear hard and dry, and un- 
necessarily fatigues the memory. In a sermon, there may be from 
three to five, or six heads, including subdivisions ; seldom should there 
be more. 

In a sermon, or in a pleading at the bar, few things are of greater 
consequence, than a proper or happy division. It should be studied 
with much accuracy and care ; for if one take a wrong method at first 
setting out, it will lead him astray in all that follows. It will render the 
whole discourse either perplexed or languid ; and though the hearers 
may not be able U tell where the fault or disorder lies, they will be 
sensible there is a disorder somewhere, and find themselves little affected 
by what is spoken. The French writers of sermons study neatness 
and elegance in the division of their subjects, much more than the English 
do ; whose distributions, though sensible and just, yet are often inarti- 
ficial and verbose. Among the French, however, too much quaintness 
appears in their divisions, with an affection of always setting out either 
with two, or with three general heads of discourse. A division of 
Massillon's on this text, " It is finished," has been much extolled by the 
French critics : " This imports," says the preacher, " the consumma- 
tion, first, Of justice on the part of God ; secondly, Of wickedness on the 
part of men ; thirdly, Of love on the part of Christ." This also of 
Bourdaloue's has been much praised, from these words, " My peace I 
give unto you :" " Peace," says he, " first, To the understanding by 
submission to faith ; secondly, To the heart, by submission to the law." 

The next constituent part of a discourse, which I mentioned, was 
narration or explication. I put these together, both because they 
fall nearly under the same rules, and because they commonly answer 
the same purpose ; serving to illustrate the cause or the subject of 
which the orator treats, before he.proceeds to argue either on one side 
or other ; or to make any attempt for interesting the passions of the 
hearers. 

In pleadings at the bar, narration is often a very important part of 
the discourse, and requires to be particularly attended to. Besides its 
being in any case no easy matter to relate with grace and propriety, 
there is in narrations at the bar, a peculiar difficulty. The pleader 
must say nothing but what is true ; and, at the same time, he must avoid 
saying any thing that will hurt his cause. The facts which he relates 
are to be the groundwork of all his future reasoning. To recount 
them so as to keep strictly within the bounds of truth, and yet to pre- 
sent them under the colours most favourable to his cause ; to place, in 
the most striking light, every circumstance which is to his advantage, 
and to soften and weaken such as make against him, demand no small 
exertion of skill and dexterity. He must always remember, that if he 

R r 



314 NARRATION AND EXPLICATION. [LECT. XXXI 

discovers too much art, he defeats his own purpose, and creates a dis- 
trust of his sincerity. Quintilian very properly directs, " Effugienda 
in hacpraecipue parte, omnis calliditatis suspicio ; neque enim se usquam 
magis custodit judex, quam cum narrat orator ; nihil turn videatur ac- 
tum ; nihil sollicitum ; omnia potius a causa, quam ab oratore, profecta 
videantur."* 

To be clear and distinct, to be probable, and to be concise, are the 
qualities which critics chiefly require in narration ; each of which car- 
ries, sufficiently, the evidence of its importance. Distinctness belongs 
to the whole train of the discourse, but is especially requisite in narra- 
tion, which ought to throw light on all that follows. A fact, or a single 
circumstance left in obscurity, and misapprehended by the judge, may 
destroy the effect of all the argument and reasoning which the speaker 
employs. If his narration be improbable, the judge will not regard it ; 
and if it be tedious and diffuse, he will be tired of it, and forget it. In 
order to produce distinctness, besides the study of the general rules of 
perspicuity which were formerly given, narration requires particular 
attention to ascertain clearly the names, the dates, the places, and every 
other material circumstance of the facts recounted. In order to be 
probable in narration, it is material to enter into the characters of the 
persons of whom we speak, and to show, that, their actions proceeded 
from such motives as are natural, and likely to gain belief. In order 
to be as concise as the subject will admit, it is necessary to throw out 
all superfluous circumstances ; the rejection of which will likewise tend 
to make our narration more forcible, and more clear. 

Cicero is very remarkable for his talent of narration ; and from the 
examples in his orations much may be learned. The narration, for in- 
stance, in the celebrated oration pro Milone, has been often and justly 
admired. His scope is to show, that though in fact Clodius was killed 
by Milo or his servants, yet that it was only in self-defence ; and that 
the design had been laid, not by Milo against Clodius, but by Clodius 
against Milo's life. Ail the circumstances for rendering this probable 
are painted with wonderful art. In relating the manner of Milo's set- 
ting out from Rome, he gives the most natural description of a family 
excursion to the country, under which it was impossible that any bloody 
design could be concealed. " He remained," says he, " in the Senate 
house that day, till all the business was over. He came home, changed 
his clothes deliberately, and waited for some time, till his wife had got 
all her things ready for going with .him in his carriage to the country. 
He did not set out, till such time as Clodius might easily have been in 
Rome, if he had not been lying in wait for Milo by the way. By and by, 
Clodius met him on the road, on horseback, like a man prepared for 
action, no carriage, nor his wife, as was usual, nor any family equipage 
along with him : whilst Milo, who is supposed to be meditating slaughter 
and assassination, is travelling in a carriage with his wife, wrapped up 
in his cloak, embarrassed with baggage, and attended by a great train of 
women servants, and boys." He goes on describing the rencounter that 
followed ; Clodius's servants attacking those of Milo, and killing the 

* " In this part of discourse, the speaker must be very careful to shun every ap- 
pearance of art and cunning. For there is no time at which the judge is more upon 
his guard, than when the pleader is relating facts. Let nothing then seem feigned : 
nothing anxiously concealed. Let all that is said appear to arise from the cause 
ftself. and not to be the work of the orator," 



LECT. XXXI.] NARRATION AND EXPLICATION. 315 

driver of his carriage ; Milo jumping out, throwing off his cloak, and 
making the best defence he could while Clodius's servants endeavoured 
to surround him ; and then concludes his narration with a very delicate 
and happy stroke. He does not say in plain words, that Milo's servants 
killed Clodius, but that, " in the midst of the tumult, Milo's servants, 
without the orders, without the knowledge, without the presence of their 
master, did what every master would have wished his servants, in a like 
conjuncture, to have done."* 

In sermons, where there is seldom any occasion for narration, expli- 
cation of the subject to be discoursed on, comes in the place of narra- 
tion at the bar, and is to be taken up much on the same tone ; that \£, 
it must be concise, clear, and distinct : and in a style correct and ele- 
gant, rather than highly adorned. To explain the doctrine of the text 
with propriety ; to give a full and perspicuous account of the nature 
of that virtue or duty which forms the subject of the discourse, is pro- 
perly the didactic part of preaching ; on the right execution of which 
much depends for all that comes afterward in the way of persuasion. 
The great art in succeeding in it is, to meditate profoundly on the sub- 
ject, so as to be able to place it in a clear and strong point of view. 
Consider what light other passages of Scripture throw upon it ; consider 
whether i.t be a subject nearly related to some other from which it is 
proper to distinguish it ; consider whether it can be illustrated to advan- 
tage by comparing it with, or opposing it to, some other thing; by 
inquiring into causes, or tracing effects : by pointing out examples, or 
appealing to the feelings of the hearers ; that thus, a definite, precise, 
circumstantial view may be afforded of the doctrine to be inculcated. 
Let the preacher be persuaded, that, by such distinct and apt illustra- 
tions of the known truths of religion, it may both display great merit in 
the way of composition, and, what he ought to consider as far more 
valuable, render his discourses weighty, instructive, and useful. 

* " Milo, cum in senatu fuisset eo die ; quod senalus dimissus est, domurr. venit, 
Calceos et vestimenta mutavit ; paulisper, dum se uxor (ut fit) comparat, commo- 
ratus est ; deinde profectus est, id teraporis cum jam Clodius, si quidem eo die 
Romam venturus erat, redire potuisset. Obviem fit ei Clodius expeditus, in equo, 
nulla rheda, nullis impedimentis, nullis Graecis comitibus, ut solebat ; sine uxore, 
quod nunquam fere. Cum hie insidiator, qui iter illud ad caedem faciendam appa- 
r&sset, cum uxore veheretur in'rheda, penulatus, vulgi magno impedimento, ac 
muliebri et delicato ancillarum puerorumque comitatu. Fit obviam Clodio ante 
fundum ejus, hora fere undecima, aut non multo secus. Statim complures cum 
telis in hunc faciunt de loco superiore impetum : adversi rhedarium occidunt cum 
autem hie de rheda, rejecta penula desiluisset, sequi acri animo defenderet, III i qui 
erant cum Clodio, gladiis eductis, partim recurrere ad rhedam, ut a tergo Milonem 
adorirentur ; partim, quod hunc jam interfectum putarent, credere incipiunt ejus 
servos qui post erant; ex quibus qui animo fideli in dominum et praesenti fuerunt, 
partim occisi sunt ; partim cum ad rhedam pugnare viderunt, et dorainio succurrere 
prohiberentur, Miloner»que occisum etiam ex ipso Clodio audirent, et ita esse pu- 
tarent, fecerunt id servi Milonis (dicam enim non derivandi criminis causa\, sed ut 
factum est) neque imperante, neque sciente, neque prasente domino, quod suos 
quisque servos in tali re facere voluisset." 



316 - 



LECTURE XXXII. 



CONDUCT OF A DISCOURSE— THE ARGUMEMTATIVE PART— 
THE PATHETIC PART— THE PERORATION. 

In treating of the constituent parts of a regular discourse, or oration, 
I have already considered the introduction, the division, and the narra- 
tion or explication. I proceed next to treat of the argumentative or 
reasoning part of a discourse. In whatever place, or on whatever 
subject one speaks, this, beyond doubt, is of the greatest consequence. 
For the great end for which men speak on any serious occasion, is to 
convince their hearers of something being either true, or right, or good ; 
and, by means of this conviction, to influence their practice. Reason 
and argument make the foundation, as I have often inculcated, of all 
manly and persuasive eloquence. 

Now, with respect to arguments, three things are requisite. First, 
the invention of them ; secondly, the proper disposition and arrange- 
ment of them ; and thirdly, the expressing of them in such a style and 
manner, as to give them their full force. 

The first of these, invention, is, without doubt, the most material, 
and the groundwork of the rest. But with respect to this, I am 
afraid it is beyond the power of art to give any real assistance. Art 
cannot go so far, as to supply a speaker with arguments on every cause, 
and every subject ; though it may be of considerable use in assisting 
him to arrange and express those, which his knowledge of the subject 
has discovered. For it is one thing to discover the reasons that are 
most proper to convince men, and another to manage these reasons with 
the most advantage. The latter is all that rhetoric can pretend to. 

The ancient rhetoricians did indeed attempt to go much farther than 
this. They attempted to form rhetoric into a more complete system ; 
and professed not only to assist public speakers in setting off their argu- 
ments to most advantage ; but to supply the defect of their invention, 
and to teach them where to find arguments on every subject and cause. 
Hence their doctrine of topics, or " Loci Communes," and " Sedes 
Argumentorum," which makes so great a figure in the writings of Aris- 
totle, Cicero, and Quintilian. These topics, or loci, were no other 
than general ideas applicable to a great many different subjects, which 
the orator was directed to consult, in order to find out materials for 
his speech. They had their intrinsic and extrinsic loci ; some loci, that 
were common to all the different kinds of public speaking, and some 
that were peculiar to each. The common or general loci, were such 
as genius and species, cause and effect, antecedents and consequents, 
likeness and contrariety, definition, circumstances of time and place ; 
and a great many more of the same kinds. For each of the different 
kinds of public speaking, they had their " Loci Personarum," and " Loci 
Rerutn:" As in demonstrative orations, for instance, the heads from 



LK.CT. XXXII.} CONDUCT t)F A DlSCOUttSfc. 317 

which any one could be decried or praised ; his birth, his country, his 
education, his kindred, the qualities of his body, the qualities of his 
mind, the fortune he enjoyed, the stations he had filled, &c. ; and in de- 
liberative orations, the topics that might be used in recommending any 
public measure, or dissuading from it ; such as, honesty, justice, facility, 
profit, pleasure, glory, assistance from friends, mortification to enemies 3 
and the like. 

The Grecian sophists were the first inventors of this artificial system 
of oratory ; and they showed a prodigious subtilty and fertility in the 
contrivance of these loci. Succeeding rhetoricians, dazzled by the 
plan, wrought them up into so regular a system, that one would think 
they meant to teach how a person might mechanically become an orator, 
without any genius at all. They gave him receipts for making speeches 
on all manner of subjects. At the same time, it is evident, that though 
this study of common-places might produce very showy academical de- 
clamations, it could never produce useful discourses on real business. 
The loci indeed supplied a most exuberant fecundity of matter. One 
who had^no other aim, but to talk copiously and plausibly, by consulting 
them on every subject, and laying hold of all that they suggested, might 
discourse without end ; and that too, though he had none but the most 
superficial knowledge of his subject. But such discourse could be no 
other than trivial. What is truly solid and persuasive, must be drawn 
11 ex visceribus causae," from a thorough knowledge of the subject, and 
profound meditation on it. They who would direct students of oratory 
to any other sources of argumentation, only delude them : and by at- 
tempting to render rhetoric too perfect an art, they render it, in truth, 
a trifling and childish study. 

On this doctrine, therefore, of the rhetorical loci, or topics, I thiuk 
it superfluous to insist. If any think that the knowledge of them may 
contribute to improve their invention, and extend their views, they must 
consult Aristotle and Quintilian, or what Cicero has written on this 
head, in his Treatise de Inventione, his Topica, and second book De 
Oratore. But when they are to prepare a discourse, by which they 
purpose to convince a judge, or to produce any considerable effect upon 
an assembly, I would advise them to lay aside their common places, 
and to think closely of their subject. Demosthenes, I dare sa} r , consult- 
ed none of the loci, when he was inciting the Athenians to take arms 
against Philip*: and where Cicero has had recourse to them, his orations 
are so much the worse on that account. 

I proceed to what is of more real use, to point out the assistance that 
can be given, not with respect to the invention, but with respect to the 
disposition and conduct of arguments. 

Two different methods. may be used by orators in the conduct of their 
reasoning ; the terms of art for which are, the analytic, and the synthetic 
method. The analytic is, when the orator conceals his intention con- 
cerning the point he is to prove, till he has gradually brought his hear- 
ers to the designed conclusion. They are led on step by step, from one 
known truth to another, till the conclusion be stolen upon them, as the 
natural consequence of a chain of propositions. As, for instance, when 
one intending to prove the being of a God, sets out with observing that 
every thing which we see in the world has had a beginning ; that what- 
ever has had a beginning must have had a prior cause ; that in human pro- 
ductions, art shown in the effect, necessarily infers design in the cause ; 



318 THE ARGUMENTATIVE' FART [LECT. XXXU 

and proceeds leading you on from one cause to another, till you arrive 
at one supreme first cause, from whom is derived all the order and 
design visible in his works. This is much the same with the Socratic 
method, by which that philosopher silenced the sophists of his age. It 
is a very artful method of reasoning ; may be carried on with much 
beauty, and is proper to be used when the hearers are much preju- 
diced against any truth, and by imperceptible steps must be led to 
conviction. 

But there are few subjects that will admit this method, and not many 
occasions on which it is proper to be employed. The mode of reasoning 
most generally used, and most suited to the train of popular speaking, is 
what is called the synthetic ; when the point to be proved is fairly laid 
down, and one argument after another is made to bear upon it, till the 
hearers be fully convinced. 

Now in all arguing, one of the first things to be attended to is, among 
the various arguments which may occur upon a cause, to make a proper 
selection of such as appear to one's self the most solid ; and to employ 
these as the chief means of persuasion. Every speaker should place 
himself in the situation of a hearer, and think how he would be affected 
by those reasons which he purposes to employ for persuading others. 
For he must not expect to impose on mankind by mere arts of speech. 
They are not so easily imposed on, as public speakers are sometimes apt 
to think. Shrewdness and sagacity are found among all ranks ; and the 
speaker may be praised for his fine discourse, while yet the hearers are 
not persuaded of the truth of any one thing he has uttered. 

Supposing the arguments properly chosen, it is evident that their 
effect will, in some measure, depend on the right arrangement of them ; 
so as they shall not justle and embarrass one another, but give mutual 
aid ; and bear with the fairest and fullest direction on the point in view. 
Concerning this, the following rules may be taken : * 

In the first place, avoid blending arguments confusedly together, that 
are of a separate nature. AH arguments whatever are directed to prove 
one or other of these three things ; that something is true ; that it is 
morally right or fit ; or that it is profitable and good. These make the 
three great subjects of discussion among mankind ; truth, duty, and 
interest. But the arguments directed towards any one of them are 
generically distinct ; and he who blends them all under one topic, which 
he calls his argument, as in sermons, especially, is too often done, will 
render his reasoning indistinct and inelegant. Suppose, for instance, 
that I am recommending to an audience benevolence or the love of our 
neighbour, and that I take my first argument, from the inward satisfaction 
which a benevolent temper affords : my second, from the obligation 
which the example of Christ lays upon us to this duty ; and my third, 
from its tendency to procure us the good will "of all around us ; my ar- 
guments are good, but I have arranged them wrong ; for, my first and 
third arguments are taken from considerations of interest, internal 
peace, and external advantages ; and between these, I have introduced 
one which rests wholly upon duty. I should have kept those classes of 
arguments, which are addressed to different principles in human nature, 
separate and distinct. 

In the second place, With regard to the different degrees of strength 
in arguments, the general rule is, to advance in the way of climax, " utau- 
geatur semper, et inrrescat oratio." This especially is to be the course, 



LECT. XXXII.] OF A DISCOURSE. 31 9 

when the speaker has a clear cause, and is confident that he can prove it 
fully. He may then adventure to begin with feebler arguments ; rising 
gradually, and not putting forth his whole strength till the last, when he 
can trust to his making a successful impression on the minds ot hearers, 
prepared by what has gone before. But this rule is not to be always 
followed. For if be distrusts his cause, and has but one material argu- 
ment on which to lay the stress, putting less confidence in the rest, in this 
case, it is often proper for him to place this material argument in the 
front ; to preoccupy the hearers early, and make the strongest effort at 
first ; that, having removed prejudices, and disposed them to be favour- 
able, the rest of his reasoning may be listened to witri more candour. 
When it happens, that amidst a variety of arguments, there are one or 
two which we are sensible are more inconclusive than the rest, and yet 
proper to be used, Cicero advises to place these in the middle, as a station 
less conspicuous than either the beginning, or the end, of the train of 
reasoning. 

In the third place, when our arguments are strong and satisfactory, the 
more they are distinguished and treated apart from each other, the better, 
Each can then bear to be brought out by itself, placed in its full light, 
amplified and rested upon. But when our arguments are doubtful, and 
only of the presumptive kind, it is safer to throw them together in a 
crowd, and to run them into one another : •• ut quae sunt natura imbecilla," 
as Quintilian speaks, " mutuo auxilio sustineantur ;" though infirm of 
themselves, they may serve mutually to prop each other. He gives a 
good example, in the case of one who was accused of murdering a re- 
lation, to whom he was heir. Direct proof was wanting : but, ' you ex- 
pected asuccession, and a great succession ; you were in distrest circum- 
stances ; you were pushed to the utmost by your creditors : you hadof- 
fended your relation, who had made you his heir ; you knew that he was 
just then intending to alter his will ; no time was to be lost. Each of 
these particulars, by itself, says the author, " is inconclusive ; but when 
they were assembled in one groupe, they have effect." 

Of the distinct amplification of one persuasive argument, we have a 
most beautiful example in Cicero's oration for Milo. The argument is 
taken from a circumstance of time. Miio was candidate for the consul- 
ship ; and Clodius was killed a few days before the election. He asks, 
if any one could believe that Milo would be mad enough at such a criti- 
cal time, by a most odious assassination, to alienate from himself the 
favour of people, whose suffrages he was so anxiously courting ? This 
argument, the moment it is suggested, appears to have considerable 
weight. But it was not enough, simply to suggest it ; it could bear to be 
dwelt upon, and brought out into full light. The orator, therefore, draws 
a just and striking picture of that solicitous attention with which candi- 
dates, at such a season, always found it necessary to cultivate the goorf 
opinion of the people. " Quo tempore," says he, ( ; 'Scio enim quam ti- 
mida sit ambitio,quantaque et quam sollicita, cupiditasconsolatus) omnia, 
non modo quae reprehendi palam, sed etiam quse obscure cogitari pos- 
sunt, timemus. Rumorem, fabulam fictam et falsarn, perhorrescimus - 7 
ora omnium atque oculos intuemur. Nihil enim est tarn tenerum, tarn 
aut fragile aUt flexibile, quam voluntas ergo nos sensusque civium, qui 
non modo improbitati irascuntur candidatorum, sed etiam in recte factis 
saepe fastidiunt." From all which he most justly concludes, " Huncdiem 
igitur Campi, speratum atque exoptatum, sibi proponens Milo, cruentis 



320 THE PATHETIC PAM OF A DISCOURSE. [LECT. XXXU. 

manibus, scelus atque facinus prge se ferens, ad illacenturiarum auspicia 
veniebat ? Quam hoc in illo minimum credibile !"* But though such 
amplification as this be extremely beautiful, I must add a caution. 

In the fourth place, against extending arguments too far, and multiplex- 
ing them too much. This serves rather to render a cause suspected, 
than to give it weight. An unnecessary multiplicity of arguments both 
burdens the memory, and detracts from the weight of that conviction 
which a few well-chosen arguments carry. It is to be observed too, that 
in the amplification of arguments, a diffuse and spreading method, be- 
yond the bounds, of reasonable illustration, is always enfeebling. It takes 
off greatly from that " vis et acumen," which should be the distinguish- 
ing character of the argumentative part of a discourse. When a speaker 
dwells long on a favourite argument, and seeks to turn it into every pos- 
sible light, it almost always happens, that, fatigued with the effort, he 
loses the spirit with which he set out ; and concludes with feebleness 
what he began with force. There is a proper temperance in reasoning, 
as there is in other parts of a discourse. 

After due attention given to the proper arrangement of arguments, 
what is next requisite for their success, is to express them in such a style, 
and to deliver them in such a manner, as shall give them full force. On 
these heads I must refer the reader to the directions I have given in 
treating of style, in former lectures ; and to the directions I am after- 
ward to give concerning pronunciation and delivery. 

I proceed, therefore, next, to another essential part of discourse 
which I mentioned as the fifth in order, that is, the pathetic ; in which, 
if any where, eloquence reigns, and exerts its power. I shall not, in 
beginning this head, take up time in. combating the scruples of those 
who have moved a question, whether it be consistent with fairness and 
candour in a public speaker, to address the passions of his audience ? 
This is a question about words alone, and which common sense easily 
determines. In inquiries after mere truth, in matters of simple infor- 
mation and instruction, there is no question that the passions have no 
concern, and that all attempts to move them are absurd. Wherever 
conviction is the object, it is the understanding alone that is to be applied 
to. It is by argument and reasoning, that one man attempts to satisfy 
another of what is true, or right, or just ; but if persuasion be the ob- 
ject, the case is changed. In all that relates to practice, there is no man 
who seriously means to persuade another, but addresses himself to his 
passions more or less ; for this plain reason, that passions are the great 
springs of human action. The most virtuous man, in treating of the 
most virtuous subject, seeks to touch the heart of him to whom he 
speaks ; and makes no scruple to raise his indignation at injustice, or 
^iis pity to the distressed, though pity and indignation be passions. 

* " Well do I know to what length the timidity goes of such as are candidates for 
public offices, and how many anxious cares and attentions, a canvass for the consul- 
ship necessarily carries along with it.'* On such an occasion, we are afraid not only 
of what we may openly be reproached with, but of what others may think of us in 
secret. The slightest rumour, the most improbable tale that can be devised to our 
prejudice, alarms and disconcerts us. We study the countenance, and the looks, 
of all around us. For nothing is so delicate, so frail and uncertain, as the public 
favour. Our fellow-citizens not only are justly offended with the vices of candidates, 
but even, on occasion of meritorious actions, are apt to conceive capricious disgusts. 
Is there then the least credibility that Milo, after having so lcmg fixed his attention 
on the important and wished-for day of election, would dare to have any thoughts 
of presenting himself before the august assembly of the people, as a murderer am? 
assassin. " r ith hi? hpjids JoabiHTed in blood:" , 



LECT. XXXII.] THE PATHETIC PART OF A DISCOURSE. 321 

In treating of this part of eloquence, the ancients made the same sort 
of attempt as they employed with respect to the argumentative part, 
in order to bring rhetoric into a more perfect system. They inquired 
metaphysically into the nature of every passion ; they gave a delinition 
and a description of it ; they treated of its causes, its effects, and its 
concomitants : and thence deduced rules for working upon it. Aristotle 
in particular has, in his Treatise upon Rhetoric, discussed the nature of 
the passions with much profoundness and subtilty ; and what he has 
written on that head, may be read with no small profit, as a valuable piece 
of moral philosophy ; but whether it will have any effect in rendering 
an orator more pathetic, is to me doubtful. It is not, I am afraid, any 
philosophical knowledge of the passions, that can confer this talent. We 
must be indebted for it to nature, a certain strong and happy sensibility 
of mind ; and one may be a most thoroHgh adept in all the speculative 
knowledge that can be acquired concerning the passions, and remain at 
the same time a cold and dry speaker. The use of rules and instructions 
on this or any other part of oratory, is not to supply the want of genius, 
but to direct it where it is found, into its proper channel ; to assist it in 
exerting itself with most advantage, and to prevent the errors and extra- 
vagancies into which it is sometimes apt to run. On the head of the pa- 
thetic, the following directions appear to me to be useful. 

The first is to consider carefully, whether the subject admits the pa- 
thetic, and render it proper : and if it does, what part of the discourse is 
the most proper for attempting it. To determine these points belongs 
to good sense ; for it is evident, that there are many subjects which admit 
not the pathetic at all, and that even in those that are susceptible of it, 
an attempt to excite the passions in the wrong place, may expose ant 
orator to ridicule. All that can be said in general is, that if we expect 
any emotion which we raise to have a lasting effect, we must be careful to 
bring over to our side, in the first place, the understanding and judgment. 
The hearers must be convinced that there are good and sufficient grounds 
for their entering with warmth into the cause. They must be able to 
justify to themselves the passions which they feel ; and remain satisfied 
that they are not carried away by mere delusion. Unless their minds 
be brought into this state, although they may have been heated by the 
orator's discourse, yet, as soon as he ceases to speak, they will resume 
their ordinary tone of thought ; and the emotion which he has raised 
will die entirely away. Hence most writers assign the pathetic to the 
peroration or conclusion, as its natural place; and, no doubt, all other 
things being equal, this is the impression that one would choose to make 
last, leaving the minds of the hearers warmed with the subject, after 
argument and reasoning had produced their full effect : but wherever it 
is introduced, I must advise, 

In the second place, Never to set apart a head of a discourse in form, 
for raising any passion ; never give warning that you are about to be 
pathetic ; and call upon your hearers, as is sometimes done, to follow 
you in the attempt. This almost never fails to prove a refrigerant to 
passion. It puts the hearers immediately on their guard, and disposes 
them for criticising, much more than for being moved. The indirect 
method of making an impression is likely to be more successful, when 
you seize the critical moment that is favourable to emotion, in whatever 
part of the discourse it occurs, and then, after due preparation, throw 
in such circumstances, and present such glowing images, as may kindle 

S s 



322 THE PATHETIC PART OF A DISCOURSE. £LECT. XXXH, 

their passions before they are aware. This can often be done more 
happily in a few sentences inspired by natural warmth, than in a long and 
studied address. 

In the third place, It is necessary to observe, that there is a great 
difference between showing the hearers that they ought to be moved, 
and actually moving them. This distinction is not sufficiently attended 
to, especially by preachers, who, if they have a head in their sermon 
to show how much we are bound to be grateful to God, or to be com- 
passionate to the distrest, are apt to imagine this to be a pathetic part. 
Now, all the arguments you produce to show me, why it is my duty, 
why it is reasonable and tit, that I should be moved in a certain way, go 
no farther than to dispose or prepare me for entering into such an emo- 
tion ; but they do not actually excite it. To every emotion or passion, 
nature has adapted a set of corresponding objects ; and, without setting 
these before the mind, it is not in the power of any orator to raise that 
emotion. I am warmed with gratitude, I am touched with compassion, 
not when a speaker shows me that these are noble dispositions, and 
that it is my duty to feel them ; or when he exclaims against me for my 
indifference and coldness. All this time, he is speaking only to my 
reason or conscience. He must describe the kindness and tenderness 
of my friend ; he must set before me the distress suffered by the person 
for whom he would interest me ; then, and not till then, my heart begins 
to be touched, my gratitude or my compassion begins to flow. The 
foundation, therefore, of all successful execution in the way of pathetic 
oratory is, to paint the object of that passion which we wish to raise, 
in the most natural and striking manner ; to describe it with such 
circumstances as are likely to awaken it in the minds of others. Every 
passion is most strongly excited by sensation ; as anger by the feeling 
of an injury, or the presence of the injurer. Next to the influence of 
sense, is that of memory ; and next to memory, is the influence of 
the imagination. Of this power, therefore, the orator must avail him- 
self, so as to strike the imagination of the hearers with circumstances 
which, in lustre and steadiness, resemble those of sensation and remem- 
brance. In order to accomplish this, 

In the fourth place, the only effectual method is, to be moved your- 
selves. There are a thousand interesting circumstances suggested by 
real passion, which no art can imitate, and no refinement can supply. 
There is obviously a contagion among the passions. 

Ut ridentibus arrident, sic flentibus adflent, 
Humani vultus. 

The internal emotion of the speaker adds a pathos to his words, his 
looks, his gestures, and his whole manner, which exerts a power almost 
irresistible over those who hear him.* But on this point, though the 
most material of all, I shall not now insist, as I have often had occasion 
before to show, that all attempts towards becoming pathetic, when we 
are not moved ourselves, expose us to certain ridicule. 

* u Quid enim aliud est causes ut lugentes, in recenti dolore, dis^-rtissime quas- 
dam exclaraare videantur ; et ira nonunquam in indoctis quoque eloquentiam facial ; 
quam quod illis inest vis mentis, et Veritas ipsa morura ? quare in iis qua? verisimilia 
esse volumus, simus ipsi similes eorum qui vere patiuntur, affeetibus ; et a tali animo 
proficiscatur oratio qualem facere judicem volet ^ffieiamur antequam afficere 
conemur," Quinct. lib. 6. 



1ECT. XXXII.] THE PATHETIC PART OF A DISCOURSE. 323 

Quintilian, who discourses upon this subject with much good sense, 
takes pains to inform us of the method which he used, when he was a 
public speaker, for entering into those passions which he wanted to 
excite in others ; setting before his own imagination what he calls 
Phantasice, or Visiones, strong pictures of the distress or indigni- 
ties which they had suffered, whose cause he was to plead, and for 
whom he was to interest his hearers ; dwelling upon these, and putting 
himself in their situation, till he was affected by a passion, similar to 
that which the persons themselves had felt.* To this method he attri- 
butes all the success he ever had in public speaking ; and there can be 
no doubt, that whatever tends to increase an orator's sensibility, will 
add greatly to his pathetic powers. 

In the fifth place, It is necessary to attend to the proper language of 
the passions. We should observe in what manner any one expresses 
himself who is under the power of a real and strong passion ; and we 
shall always find his language unaffected and simple. It may be ani- 
mated, indeed, with bold and strong figures, but it will have no ornament 
or finery. He is not at leisure to follow out the play of imagination. 
His mind being wholly seized by one object which has heated it, he has 
no other aim, but to represent that, in all its circumstances, as strongly 
as he feels it. This must be the style of the orator, when he would be 
pathetic ; and this will be his style, if he speaks from real feeling ; bold, 
ardent, simple. No sort of description will then succeed, but what is 
written " fervente calamo." If he stay till he can work up his style, 
and polish and adorn it, he will infallibly cool his own ardour ; and then 
he will touch the heart no more. His composition will become frigid ; 
it will be the language of one who describes, but who does not feel. We 
must take notice, that there is a great difference between painting to the 
imagination, and painting to the heart. The one may be done coolly, 
and at leisure ; the other must always be rapid and ardent. In the 
former, art and labour may be suffered to appear ; in the latter, no 
effect can follow, unless it seem to be the work of nature only. 

In the sixth place, Avoid interweaving any thing of a foreign nature 
with the pathetic part of a discourse. Beware of all digressions, which 
may interrupt or turn aside the natural course of the passions, when 
once it begins to rise and swell. Sacrifice all beauties, however bright 
and showy, which would divert the mind from the principal object, and 
which would amv.se the imagination, rather than touch the heart. Hence 
comparisons are always dangerous, and generally quite improper, in the 
midst of passion. Beware even of reasoning unseasonably ; or, at least, 
of carrying on a long and subtile train of reasoning, on occasions when 
the principal aim is to excite warm emotions. 

In the last place, Never attempt prolonging the pathetic too much. 
Warm emotions are too violent to be lasting.! Study the proper time of 

* t{ Ut hominem occissum querar , non omnia quas in re presenti accidisse credibile 
est, in oculis habebo ? Non percussor ille subituserumpet ? non expavescet circum- 
vent'-'! ? exclamabit, vel rogabit, vel fugiet ? non ferientem, non concidentem vi- 
debo ? non animo sanguis, et pallor, et gemitus, extremus denique expirantis hiatus, 
insidet ? — Ubi ero miseratione opus erit, nobis ea de quibus querimur accidisse cre- 
daraus atque id animo nostra persuadeamus. Nos 111* simus, quos gravia, indignia, 
tristia, passos queiamur. JNec agamus,rem quasi alienam ; sed assumamus parum- 
per ilium dolorem. Ita dicemus qua? in simili nostro casu dicturi essemus." Lib. 6. 

t " Nunquam debet esse longa miseratio ; nam cum veros dolores mitiget tern- 
pus, citius evanescat, necesse est ilia, quam dicendo effinximus, imago : in qua, si 
raoramur, lacrymrs fatigatur auditor, et requiescit et ab i!lo quern ceperatimpetu, in 



324 XH£ PATHETIC PART OF A DISCOURSE. LECT. XXXII, 

making a retreat ; of making a transition from the passionate to the calm 
tone ; in such a manner, however, as to descend without failing, by keep- 
ing up the same strain of sentiment that was carried on before, though 
now expressing it with much moderation. Above all things, beware of 
straining passion too far ; of attempting to raise it to unnatural heights. 
Preserve always a due regard to what the hearers will bear ; and re- 
member, that be who stops not at the proper point ; who attempts to 
carry them farther, in passion, than they will follow him, destroys his 
whole design. By endeavouring to warm them too much, he takes the 
most effectual method of freezing them completely. 

Having given these rules concerning the pathetic, I shall give one ex- 
ample from Cicero, which will serve to illustrate several of them, par- 
ticularly the last. It shall be taken from his last oration against Verres, 
wherein he describes the cruelty exercised by Verres, when governor 
of Sicily, against one Gavius, a Roman citizen. This Gavius had made 
his escape from prison, into which he had been thrown by the governor : 
and when just embarking at Messina, thinking himself now safe, had 
uttered some threats, that when he had once arrived at Rome, Verres 
should hear of him, and be brought to account for having put a Roman 
citizen in chains. The chief magistrate of Messina, a creature of 
Verres's, instantly apprehends him, and gives information of his threat- 
enings. The behaviour of Verres, on this occasion, is described in the 
most picturesque manner, and with all the colours which were proper, in 
order to excite against him the public indignation. He thanks the magis- 
trate of Messina for his diligence. Filled with rage, he comes into the 
forum ; orders Gavius to be brought forth, the executioners to attend, 
and against the laws, and contrary to the well-known privileges of a 
Roman citizen, commands him to be stripped naked, bound, and scourged 
publicly in a cruel manner. Cicero then proceeds thus ; " Caedebatur 
virgis, in medio foro Messanae, civis Romanus, Judices !" every word 
rises above another in describing this flagrant enormity ; and, " Judices," 
is brought out at the end with the greatest propriety ; " Caedebatur virgis, 
in medio foro Messanas, civis Rornanus, Judices ? cum interea, nullus 
gemitus, nulla vox alia istius miseri, inter dolorem crepitumque plaga- 
rum audiebatur, nisi haec, civis Romanus sum. Hac se commemoratione 
civitatis, omnia verbera depulsurum a corpore arbitrabatur. Is non 
modo hoc non perfecit, ut virgarum vim dcprecaretur, sed cum implora- 
ret ssepius usurparetque nomen civis, crux, cruxinquam, infelici isto et 
asrumnoso, qui nunquam, istam potestatem viderat,comparabatur. O no- 
men dulce libertatis ! O jus eximium nostra? civitatis ! O lex Porcia, le- 
gesque Sempronias ! — Huccine omnia tandem reciderunt, ut civis Ro- 
manus, in provincia populi Romani, in oppido fcederatorum, ab eo qui 
beneficio populi Romani fasces et secures haberet, delegatus, in foro, 
virgis crederetuiv 5 * 

rationem redif. Non patiamur igitur frigescere hoc opus ; et effectual, cum ad sum- 
mum perduxerimus, relinquamus ; nee speremus fore, ut aliena mala quisquam diu 
ploret." Qcinct. lib. 6. 

* " In the midst of the market-place of Messina, a Roman citizen, O Judges ! was 
cruelly scoured with rods ; when, in the mean time, amidst the noise of the blows 
which he suffered, no voice, no complaint of this unhappy man was heard, except 
this exclamation, Remember that I am a Roman citizen ! By pleading this privilege 
of bis birthright, he hoped to have stopped the strokes of the executioner. But his 
hopes were vain ; for so far was he from being able to obtain thereby any mitigation 
of his torture, that when he continued to repeat this exclamation, and to plead the 
rights of a citizen, a cross, a cross, I say, was preparing to be set up for the execu- 



IJEm. XXXII.j THE PATHETIC PART OF A DISCOURSE. i 335 

Nothing can be finer, nor better conducted than this passage. The 
circumstances are well chosen for exciting both the compassion of his 
hearers for Gavius, and their indignation against Verres. The style 
is simple : and the passionate exclamation, the address to liberty and the 
laws, is well timed, and in the proper style of passion. The orator goes 
on to exaggerate Verres's cruelty still farther, by another very striking 
circumstance. He ordered a gibbet to be erected for Gavius, not in the 
common place of execution, but just by the sea-shore, over against the 
coast of Italy. " Let him," s:iid he, " who boasts so much of his being a 
Roman citizen, take a view from his gibbet of his own country. — This 
base insult over a dying man is the least part of his guilt. It was not Ga- 
vius alone that Verres meant to insult ; but it was you, O Romans! it 
was every citizen who now hears me ; in the person of Gavius, he scoffed 
at your rights, and showed in what contempt he held the Roman name, 
and Roman liberties." 

Hitherto all is beautiful, animated, pathetic; and the model would 
have been perfect, if Cicero had stopped at this point. But his redun- 
dant and florid genius carried him farther. He must needs interest, not 
his hearers only, but the beasts, the mountains, and the stones, against 
Verres ; " Si hgec non ad cives Romanos, non ad amicos nostras civitatis, 
non ad eos qui populi Romani nomen audissent ; denique si non ad homi- 
nes, veruna ad bestias ; atque ut longius progrediar, si in aliqua desertis- 
sima solitudine, adsaxaet ad scopulos haec conqueri et deplorare vellem, 
tamen omnia muta atque inanima, tanta et tarn indigna rerum atrocitate 
comrnoverentur."* This, with all the deference due to so eloquent an 
orator, we must pronounce to be declamatory, not pathetic. This is 
straining the language of passion too far. Every hearer sees this imme- 
diately to be a studied figure of rhetoric ; it may amuse him, but in- 
stead of inflaming him more, it, in truth, cools his passion. So danger- 
ous it is to give scope to a flowery imagination, when one intends to 
make a strong and passionate impression. 

No other part of discourse remains now to be treated of, except the 
peroration, or conclusion. Concerning this, it is needless to say much, 
because it must vary considerably, according to the strain of the prece- 
ding discourse. Sometimes, the whole pathetic part comes in most pro- 
perly at the peroration. Sometimes, when the discourse has been en- 
tirely argumentative, it is fit to conclude with summing up the arguments, 
placing them in one view, and leaving the impression of them, full and 
strong, on the mind of the audience. For the great rule of a conclu- 
sion, and what nature obviously suggests, is, to place that last on which 
we choose that the strength of our cause should rest. 

In sermons, inferences from what has been said, make a common con- 

tion of this unfortunate person, who never before had beheld that instrument of cruel 
death. O sacred and honoured name of liberty ! boasted and revered privilege 
of a Roman citizen ! O ye Porcian and Sempronian laws ! to this issue have ye all 
come, that a citizen of Rome, in a province of the Roman empire, w ithin an allied 
city, should publicly in a market-place, be loaded with chains, and beaten with rods, 
at the command of one who, from the favour of the Roman people alone, derived 
all his authority and ensigns of power !" 

* " Were I employed in lamenting those instances of an atrocious oppression and 
cruelty, not among an assembly of Roman citizens, not among the allies of our 
state, not among those who had ever heard the name of the Roman people, not 
even among human creatures, but in the midst of the brute creation ; and to go 
farther, were I pouring forth my lamentations to the stones, and to the rocks, in 
some remote and desert wilderness, even those mute and inanimate beings would- 
at the recital of such shocking indignities, be thrown into commotion." 



326 PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY [LECT. XXXI1L 

elusion. With regard to these, care should be taken not only that they 
rise naturally, but, (what is less commonly attended to) that they should 
so much agree with the strain of sentiment throughout the discourse, as 
not to break the unity of the sermon. For inferences, how justly soever 
they may be deduced from the doctrine of the text, yet have a bad 
effect, if at the conclusion of a discourse, they introduce some subject 
altogether new, and turn off our attention from the main object to which 
the preacher had directed our thoughts. They appear, in this case, like 
excrescences jutting out from the body, which had better have been 
wanted ; and tend to enfeeble the impression which the composition, 
as a whole, is calculated to make. 

The most eloquent, of the French, perhaps, indeed, of all modern 
orators, Bossuet, bishop of Meaux, terminates in a very moving manner, 
his funeral oration on the great prince of Conde", with this return upon 
himself, and his old age : " Accept, O prince ! these last efforts of a 
voice which you once well knew. With you, all my funeral discourses 
are now to end. Instead of deploring the death of others, henceforth, 
it shall be my study to learn from you, how my own may be blessed. 
Happy, if warned by those gray hairs, of the account which I must 
soon give of my ministry, 1 reserve, solely, for that flock whom I ought 
to feed with the word of life, the feeble remains of a voice which now 
trembles, and of an ardour, which is now on the point of being extinct."* 

In all discourses it is a matter of importance to hit the precise time 
of concluding so as to bring our discourse just to a point; neither end- 
ing abruptly and unexpectedly ; nor disappointing the expectation of 
the hearers, when they look for our being done ; and continuing to hover 
round and round the conclusion till they become heartily tired of us. 
We should endeavour to go off with a good grace ; not to end with a 
languishing and drawling sentence ; but to close with dignity and spirit, 
that we may leave the minds of the hearers warm ; and dismiss them 
with a favourable impression of the subject, and of the speaker. 



LECTURE XXXIII. 



PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY. 

Having treated of several general heads relating to eloquence, or 
public speaking, I now proceed to another very important part of the 
subject yet remaining, that is, the pronunciation or delivery of a dis- 
course. How much stress was laid upon this by the most eloquent of 
all orators, Demosthenes, appears from a noted saying of his, related both 
by Cicero and Quintilian ; when being asked what was the first point 

* " Agreez ces derniers efforts d'une voix que vous fut connue. Vous mettrez fin 
a tous ces discours. Au lieu de deplorer la mort des autres, Grand Prince ! dorena- 
vant je veux apprendre de vous, arendre la inienne sainte. Heureux, si averti par 
ces cheveux blancs, du compte que je dois rendre de mon administration, je reserve 
au troupeau que je dois nourrir de la parole de vie, les restes d'une voix que tombe, 
et d'une ardeur qui s'eteint." — These are the last sentences of that oration : but the 
whole.of the peroration from that passage, " Venez, peuples, venez maintenant," fee* 
though it is too long for insertion, is a great masterpiece of pathetic eloquence. 



LECT. XXXIiL] OF A DISCOURSE. 3^7 

in oratory ? he answered, dilivery ; and being asked what was the 
second ? and afterward, what was the third ? he still answered, deli- 
very. There is no wonder, that he should have rated this so high, and 
that for improving himself in it, he should have employed those assidu- 
ous and painful labours, which all the ancients take so much notice of; 
for, beyond doubt, nothing there is of more importance. To super- 
ficial thinkers, the management of the voice and gesture, in public 
speaking, may appear to relate to decoration only, and to be one of the 
inferior arts of catching an audience. But this is far from being the 
case. It is intimately connected with what is, or ought to be, the end 
of all public speaking, persuasion ; and therefore deserves the study of 
the most grave and serious speakers as much as of those, whose only 
'aim it is to please. 

For, let it be considered, whenever we address ourselves to others 
by words, our intention certainly is to make some impression on those 
to whom we speak : it is to convey to them our own ideas and emotions. 
Now the tone of our voice, our looks and gestures, interpret our ideas 
and emotions no less than words do ; nay, the impression they make on 
others, is frequently much stronger than any that words can make, 
We often see that an expressive look, or a passionate cry, unaccom- 
panied by words, conveys to others more forcible ideas, and rouses 
within them stronger passions, than can be communicated by the most 
eloquent discourse. The signification of our sentiments, made by 
tones and gestures, has this advantage above that made by words, that 
it is the language of nature. It is that method of interpreting our 
mind, which nature has dictated to all, and which is understood by all ; 
whereas words are only arbitrary, conventional symbols of our ideas, 
and, by consequence, must make a more feeble impression. So true 
is this, that to render words fully significant, they must, almost in every 
case, receive some aid from the manner of pronunciation and delivery ; 
and he who, in speaking, should employ bare words, without enforcing 
them by proper tones and accents, would leave us with a faint and in- 
distinct impression, often with a doubtful and ambiguous conception, of 
what he had delivered. Nay, so close is the connexion between cer- 
tain sentiments and the proper manner of pronouncing them, that he 
who does not pronounce them after that manner, can never persuade 
us, that he believes, or feels, the sentiments themselves. His delivery 
may be such, as to give the lie to all that he asserts. When Marcus 
Callidus accused one of an attempt to poison him, but enforced his 
accusation in a languid manner, and without any warmth or earnestness 
of delivery, Cicero, who pleaded for the accused person, improved this 
into an argument of the falsity of the charge, " An tu, M. Callidi, nisi 
fingeres, sic ageres ?'•' In Shakspeare's Richard II. the Dutchess of 
York thus impeaches the sincerity of her husband : 

Pleads he in earnest ? — Look upon his face, 

His eyes do drop no tears ; his prayers are jest ; 

His words come from his mouth ; ours, from our breast ; 

He prays but faintly, and would be denied ; 

We pray with heart and soul. 

But, I believe it is needless to say any more, in order to show the high 
importance of a good delivery. 1 proceed, therefore, to such observa- 
tions as appear to me most useful to be made on this head. 

The great, object?- which every public speaker will naturally have 



328 PRONUNCIATION OR DELIVERY [LECT. XXXI1L 

in his eye in forming his delivery, are, first, to speak so as to be fully 
and easily understood by all who hear him : and next, to speak with 
grace and force so as to please and move his audience. Let us consider 
what is most important with respect to each of these. * 

In order to be fully and easily understood, the four chief requisites 
are, a due degree of loudness of voice ; distinctness ; slowness ; and pro- 
priety of pronunciation. 

The first attention of every public speaker, doubtless, must be to 
make himself be heard by all those to whom he speaks. He must en- 
deavour to fill with his voice the space occupied by the assembly. This 
power of voice, it may be thought, is wholly a natural talent. It is 
so in a good measure ; but, however, may receive considerable assist- 
ance from art. Much depends for this purpose on the proper pitch, 
and management of the voice. Every man has three pitches in his 
voice ; the high, middle, and the low one. The high, is that which 
he uses in calling aloud to some one at a distance. The low is, when 
he approaches to a whisper. The middle is, that which he employs 
in common conversation, and which he should generally use in public 
discourse. For it is a great mistake to imagine that one must take the 
highest pitch of his voice, in order to be well heard by a great assembly. 
This is confounding two things which are different, loudness, or strength 
of sound, with the key or note on which we speak. A speaker 
may render his voice louder, without altering the key ; and we shall 
always be able to give most body, most persevering force of sound, to 
that pitch of voice, to which in conversation we are accustomed. 
Whereas, by setting out on our highest pitch or key, we certainly allow 
ourselves less compass, and are likely to strain our voice before we 
have done. We shall fatigue ourselves, and speak with pain ; and 
whenever a man speaks with pain to himself, he is always heard with 
pain by his audience. Give the voice therefore full strength and swell 
of sound ; but always pitch it on your ordinary speaking key. Make it 
a constant rule never to utter a greater quantity of voice than you can 
afford without pain to yourselves, and without any extraordinary effort. 
As long as you keep within these bounds, the other organs of speech 
will be at liberty to discharge their several offices with ease ; aud } r ou 
will always have your voice under command. But whenever you 
transgress these bounds, you give up the reins, and have no longer any 
management of it. It is a useful rule too, in order to be well heard, 
to fix our eye on some of the most distant persons in the assembly, and 
to consider ourselves as speaking to them. We naturally and mechani- 
cally utter our words with such a degree of strength, as to make ourselves 
be heard by one to whom we address ourselves, provided he be within 
the reach of our voice. As this is the case in common conversation, it 
will hold also in public speaking. But remember, that in public as well 
as in conversation, it is possible to offend by speaking too loud. This 
extreme hurts the ear, by making the voice come upon it in rumbling, 
indistinct masses ; besides its giving the speaker the disagreeable appear- 
ance of one who endeavours to compel assent, by mere vehemence and 
force of sound. 

In the next place, to being well heard, and clearly understood, distinct- 

* On this whole subject, Mr. Sheridan's Lectures on Elocution are very worthy 
of being consulted ; and several hints are here taken from them. 



LEC1\ XXXIli] OP A DISCOURSE, 32$ 

ness of articulation contributes more, perhaps, than mere loudness of 
sound. The quantity of sound necessary to fill even a large space, is 
smaller than is commonly imagined ; and with distinct articulation, a man 
of a weak voice will make it reach farther, than the strongest voice can 
reach without it. To this* therefore, every public speaker ought to pay 
great attention. He must give every sound which he utters its due pro- 
portion, and make every syllable, and even every letter in the word 
which he pronounces, be heard distinctly ; without slurring, whispering, 
or suppressing any of the proper sounds. 

In the third place, in order to articulate distinctly, moderation is requi- 
site with regard to the speed of pronouncing. Precipitancy of speech 
confounds all articulation, and all meaning. I need scarcely observe, 
that there may be also an extreme on the opposite side. It is obvious 
that a lifeless, drawling pronunciation, which allows the minds of the 
hearers to be always outrunning the speaker, must render every discourse 
insipid and fatiguing. But the extreme of speaking too fast is much 
more common, and requires the more to be guarded against, because, 
when it has grown up into a habit, few errors are more difficult to be 
corrected. To pronounce with a proper degree of slowness, and with 
full and clear articulation, is the first thing to be studied by all who begin 
to speak in public : and cannot be too much recommended to them. Such 
a pronunciation gives weight and dignity to their discourse. It is a great 
assistance to the voice, by the pauses and rests which it allows it more 
easily to make ; and it enables the speaker to swell all his sounds both 
with more force and more music. It assists him also in preserving a due 
command of himself; whereas a rapid and hurried manner is apt to 
excite that flutter of spirits, which is the greatest enemy to all right 
execution in the way of oratory. " Promptum sit os," says Quintilian, 
" non praeceps, moreratum, non lentum." 

After these fundamental attentions to the pitch and management of the 
voice, to distinct articulation, and to a proper degree of slowness of speech, 
what a public speaker must, in the fourth place, study, is, propriety of 
pronunciation ; or the giving to every word which he utters, that sound 
which the most polite usage of the language appropriates to it ; in oppo- 
sition to broad, vulgar, or provincial pronunciation. This is requisite, 
both for speaking intelligibly, and for speaking with grace or beauty. 
Instructions concerning this article, can be given by the living voice 
only. But there is one observation, which it may not be improper here 
to make. In the English language, every word which consists of more 
syllables than one, has one accented syllable. The accent rests some- 
times on the vowel, sometimes on the consonant. Seldom, or never, is 
there more than one accented syllable in any English word, however 
long ; and the genius of the language requires the voice to mark that 
syllable by a stronger percussion, and to pass more slightly over the rest. 
Now, having once learned the proper seats of these accents, it is an im- 
portant rule to give every word just the same accent in public speaking, 
as in common discourse. Many persons err in this respect. When they 
speak in public, and with solemnity, they pronounce the syllables in a 
different manner from what they do at other times. They dwell upon 
them, and protract them ; they multiply accents on the same word : from 
a mistaken notion, that it gives gravity and force to their discourse, and 
adds to the pomp of public declamation. Whereas, this is one of the 
greatest faults that can be committed iu pronunciation : it makes what is 

T t 



330 PKOiYtiNCiATiOrs. OK ffiELlVE&f [LECT. XXXI1L 

called, a theatrical or mouthing manner ; and gives an artificial affected 
air to speech, which detracts greatly both from its agreeableness and its 
impression. 

I proceed to treat next of those higher parts of delivery, by studying 
which, a speaker has something farther in view than merely to render 
himself intelligible, and seeks to give grace and force to what be utters. 
These may be comprised under four heads, emphasis, pauses, tones, 
and gestures. Let me only premise, in general, to what I am to say 
concerningthem, that attention to these articles of delivery is by no means 
to be confined, as some might be apt to imagine, to the more elaborate 
and pathetic parts of a discourse. There is, perhaps, as great attention 
requisite, and as much skill displayed, in adapting emphasis, pauses, 
tones, and gestures, properly to calm and plain speaking ; and the effect 
of a just and graceful delivery will, in every part of a subject, be found 
of high importance for commanding attention, and enforcing what is 
spoken. 

First, Let us consider emphasis ; by this, is meant a stronger and 
fuller sound of voice, by which we distinguish the accented syllable of 
some word, on which we design to lay particular stress, and to show how 
it affects the rest of the sentence. Sometimes the emphatic word must 
be distinguished by a particular tone of voice, as well as by a stronger 
accent. On the right management of the emphasis, depend the whole 
life and spirit of every discourse. If no emphasis be placed on any 
words, not only is discourse rendered heavy and lifeless, but the 
meaning left often ambiguous. If the emphasis be placed wrong, we 
per /ert and confound the meaning wholly. To give a common instance ; 
such a simple question as this : " Do you ride to town to-day ?" is ca- 
pable of no fewer than four different acceptations, according as the em- 
phasis is differently placed on the words. If it be pronounced thus : 
Do you ride to town to-day ? the answer may naturally be, No ; I send 
my servant in my stead. If thus ; Do you ride to town to-day ? Answer, 
No ; I intend to walk. Do you ride to town to-day ? No ; I ride out into 
the fields. Do you ride to town to-day ? No ; but I shall to-morrow. 
In like manner, in solemn discourse, the whole force and beauty of an 
expression often depend on the accented word ; and we may present to 
the hearers quite different views of the same sentiment, by placing the 
emphasis differently. In the following words of our Saviour, observe 
in what different lights the thought is placed, according as the words are 
pronounced, Judas, betrayest thou the Son of man with a kiss ?" betray- 
est thou — makes the reproach turn on the infamy of treachery. Be- 
trayest thou — makes it rest upon Judas's connexion with his master. 
Betrayest thou the Son of man — rests it upon our Saviour's personal 
character and eminence. Betrayest thou the Son of man with a kiss ? 
turns it, upon his prostituting the signal of peace and friendship, to the 
purpose of a mark of destruction. 

In order to acquire the proper management of the emphasis, the great 
rule, and indeed the only rule possible to be given is, that the speaker study 
to attain a just conception of the force and spirit of those sentiments 
which he is to pronounce. For to lay the emphasis with exact propri- 
ety, is a constant exercise of good sense and attention. It is far from 
being an inconsiderable attainment. It is one of the greatest trials of 
a true and just taste ; and must arise from feeling delicately ourselves, 
and from judging accurately, of what is fittest to strike the feelings of 
others. There is as great a clifference between a chapter of the Bible. 



TJECT. XXXIIL] OF A DISCOURSE; 33I 

or any other piece of plain prose, read by one who places the several 
emphases every where with taste and judgment, and by one who neglects 
or mistakes them, as there is between the same tune played by the most 
masterly hand, or by the most bungling performer. 

In all prepared discourses, it would be of great use, if they were read 
over or rehearsed in private, with this particular view, to search for the 
proper emphasis before they were pronounced in public ; marking, at 
the same time, with a pen, the emphatical words in every sentence, or at 
least in the most weighty and affecting parts of the discourse, and fixing 
them well in memory. Were this attention oilener bestowed, were this 
part of pronunciation studied with more exactness, and not left to the 
moment of delivery, as is commonly done, public speakers would find 
their care abundantly repaid, by the remarkable effects which it would 
produce upon their audience. Let me caution, at the same time, against 
one error, that of multiplying emphatical words too much. It is only by 
a prudent reserve in the use of them, that we can give them any weight. 
If they recur too often ; if a speaker attempts to render every thing 
which he says of high importance, by a multitude of strong emphases, 
we soon learn to pay little regard to them. To crowd every sentence 
with emphatical words, is like crowding all the pages of a book with 
italic characters, which, as to the effect, is just the same with using no 
distinctions at all. 

Next to emphasis, the pauses in speaking demand attention. These 
are of two kinds ; first, emphatical pauses ; and next, such as mark the 
distinctions of sense. An emphatical pause is made, after something 
has been said of peculiar moment, and on which we want to fix the 
hearer's attention. Sometimes, before such a thing is said, we usher it 
in with a pause of this nature. Such pauses have the same effect, as a 
strong emphasis, and are subject to the same rules ; especially to the 
caution just now given, of not repeating them too frequently. For as 
they excite uncommon attention, and of course raise expectation, if the 
importance of the matter be not fully answerable to such expectation, 
they occasion disappointment and disgust. 

But the most frequent and the principal use of pauses, is to mark the 
divisions of the sense, and at the same time to allow the speaker to draw 
his breath ; and the proper and graceful adjustment of such pauses, is 
one of the most nice and difficult articles in delivery. In all public 
speaking the management of the breath requires a good deal of care, so 
as not to be obliged to divide words from one another, which have so 
intimate a connexion that they ought to be pronounced with the same 
breath and without the least separation. Many a sentence is miserably 
mangled, and the force of the emphasis totally lost, by divisions being 
made in the wrong place. To avoid this, every one while he is speak- 
ing, should be very careful to provide a full supply of breath for what 
he is to utter. It is a great mistake to imagine, that the breath must be 
drawn, only at the end of a period, when the voice is allowed to fall. 
It may easily be gathered at the intervals of the period, when the voice 
is only suspended for a moment ; and by this management, one may 
have always a sufficient stock for carrying on the longest sentence, with- 
out improper interruptions. 

If any one, in public speaking, shall have formed to himself a cer- 
tain melody or tone, which requires rest and pauses of its own, distinct 
from those of the sense, he has, undoubtedly, contracted one of the 



332 PftONIJNCl^TieflSi, OR f)HLWEHt [LECT. XXXItf- 

worst habits into which a public speaker can fall. It is the sense which 
should always rule the pauses of the voice ; for wherever there is any 
sensible suspension of the voice, the hearer is always led to expect 
somewhat corresponding in the meaning. Pauses in public discourse, 
must be formed upon the manner in which we utter ourselves in ordi- 
nary, sensible conversation ; and not upon the stiff, artificial manner 
which we acquire, from reading books according to the common punc-* 
illation. The general run of punctuation is very arbitrary ; often capri- 
cious and false ; and dictates a uniformity of tone in the pauses, which 
is extremely disagreeable ; for we are to observe, that to render pauses 
graceful and expressive, they must not only be made in the right place, 
but also be accompanied with a proper tone of voice, by which the 
nature of these pauses is intimated ; much more than by the length of 
them, which can never be exactly measured. Sometimes, it is only a 
slight and simple suspension of voice that is proper ; sometimes a 
degree of cadence in the voice is required ; and sometimes that peculiar 
tone and cadence, which denotes the sentence finished. In all these 
cases, we are to regulate ourselves, by attending to the manner in which 
nature teaches us to speak, when engaged in real and earnest discourse 
with others. 

When we are reading or reciting verse, there is a peculiar difficulty 
In making the pauses justly. The difficulty arises from the melody of 
verse, which dictates to the ear pauses or rests of its own, and to adjust 
and compound these properly with the pauses of the sense, so as neither 
to hurt the ear, nor offend the understanding, is so very nice a matter, 
that it is no wonder we so seldom meet with good readers of poetry. 
There are two kinds of pauses that belong to the music of verse ; one 
is, the pause at the end of the line ; and the other, the caesural pause 
in the middle of it. With regard to the pause at the end of the line, 
which marks that strain or verse to be finished, rhyme renders this 
always sensible, and in some measure compels us to observe it in our 
pronunciation. In blank verse, where there is a greater liberty per- 
mitted of running the lines into one another, sometimes without any 
suspension in the sense, it has been made a question, whether in read- 
ing such verse with propriety, any regard at all should be paid to the 
close of a line ? On the stage, where the appearance of speaking in 
verse should always be avoided, there can, I think, he no doubt, that 
the close of such lines as make no pause in the sense, should not be 
rendered perceptible to the ear. But on other occasions, this were 
improper : for what is the use of melody, or for what end has the poet 
composed in verse, if in reading his lines, we suppress his numbers : 
and degrade them, by our pronunciation, into mere prose ? We ought, 
therefore, certainly to read blank verse so as to make every line sensi- 
ble to the ear. At the same time, in doing so, every appearance of 
sing-song and tone must be carefully guarded against. The close of the 
line, where it makes no pause in the meaning, ought to be marked* not 
by snch atone as is used in finishing a sentence : but without either let- 
ting the voice fall, or elevating it, it should be marked only by such a 
slight suspension of sound, as may distinguish the passage from one line 
to another, without injuring the meaning. 

The other kind of musical pause, is that which falls somewhere 
about the middle of the verse, and divides it into two hemistichs ; a 
pause, not so great as that which belongs to the close of the Irne, but 



LEeT. XXXHL] OF A DISCOURSE: 333 

still sensible to an ordinary ear. This, which is called the coesural 
pause, in the French heroic verse, falls uniformly in the middle of the 
line. In the English, it may fall after the 4th, 5th, 6lh, or 7th sylla- 
bles in the line, and no other. Where the verse is so constructed, that 
this caesural pause coincides with the slightest pause or division in the 
sense, the line can be read easily ; as in the two first vers es of Mr. 
Pope's Messiah, 

Ye nymphs of Solyma ! begin the song ; 
To heavenly themes, sublimer strains belong. 

But if it should happen that words, which have such a strict and inti- 
mate connexion, as not to bear even a momentary separation, are di- 
vided from one another by this caesural pause, we then feel a sort of 
struggle between the sense and the sound, which renders it difficult to 
read such lines gracefully. The rule of proper pronunciation in such 
cases is, to regard only the pause which the sense forms ; and to read 
the line accordingly. The neglect of the caesural pause, may make the 
lines sound somewhat unharmoniously : but the effect would be much 
worse, if the sense were sacrificed to the sound. For instance, in the 
following line of Milton, 



-What in me is dark, 



Illumine ; what is low, raise and support. 

The sense clearly dictates the pause after " illumine," at the end of 
the third syllable, which, in reading, ought to be made accordingly : 
though, if the melody only were to be regarded, " illumine" should be 
connected with what follows, and the pause not made till the fourth or 
sixth syllable. So, in the following line of Mr. Pope's (Epistle to Dr. 
Arbuthnot:) 

I sit, with sad civility I read — 
The ear plainly points out the caesural pause as falling after " sad,'* 
the 4th syllable. But it would be very bad reading to make any pause 
there, so as to separate " sad" and " civility." The sense admits of no 
other pause than after the second syllable " sit," which therefore must 
be the only pause made in the reading. 

I proceed to treat next of tones in pronunciation, which are different 
both from emphasis and pauses ; consisting in the modulation of the 
voice, the notes or variations of sound which we employ in public speak- 
ing. How much of the propriety, the force and grace of discourse, 
must depend on these, will appear from this single consideration ; that 
to almost every sentiment we utter, more especially to every strong emo- 
tion, nature hath adapted some peculiar tone of voice ; insomuch, that 
he who should tell another that he was very angry, or much grieved, 
in a tone which did not suit such emotions, instead of being believed, 
would be laughed at. Sympathy is one of the most powerful principles 
by which persuasive discourse works its effect. The speaker endea- 
vours to transfuse into his hearers his own sentiments and emotions ; 
which he can never be successful in doing, unless he utters them in 
such a manner as to convince the hearers that he feels them.* The 



* * All that passes in the mind of man may be reduced to two classes, which I 
call ideas and emotions. By ideas, I mean all thoughts which rise and pass in suc- 
cession in the mind. By emotions, all exertions of the mind in arranging, combining^ 
and separating its ideas ; as well as all the effects produced on the nrind itself by those 



334 PRONUNCIATION, OR DELIVERY [LECT. XXXIII, 

proper expression of tones, therefore, deserves to be attentively studied 
by every one who would be a successful orator. 

The greatest and most material instruction which can be given for 
this purpose is, to form tone* of public speaking upon the tones of sensi- 
ble and animated conversation. We may observe that every man, when 
he is much in earnest in common discourse, when he is engaged in speak- 
ing on some subject which interests him nearly, has an eloquent or 
persuasive tone and manner. What is the reason of our being often so 
frigid and unpersuasive in public discourse, but our departing from the 
natural tone of speaking, and delivering ourselves in an affected artificial 
manner ? Nothing can be more absurd than to imagine, that as soon as 
one mounts a pulpit, or rises in a public assembly, he is instantly to lay 
aside the voice with which he expresses himself in private ; to assume a 
new, studied tone, and cadence altogether foreign to his natural manner, 
This has vitiated all delivery ; this has given rise to cant and tedious 
monotony, in the different kinds of modern public speaking, especially in 
the pulpit. Men departed from nature ; and sought to give a beauty or 
force, as they imagined, to their discourse, by substituting certain studied 
musical tones, in the room of the genuine expressions of sentiment, 
which the voice carries in natural discourse. Let every public speaker 
guard against this error. Whether he speak in a private room, or in a 
great assembly, let him remember that he still speaks. Follow nature : 
consider how she teaches you to utter any sentiment or feeling of your 
heart. Imagine a subject of debate started in conversation among grave 
and wise men, and yourself bearing a share in it. Think after what man- 
ner, with what tones and inflexions of voice, you would on such an 
occasion express yourself, when you were most in earnest, and sought 
most to be listened to. Carry these with you to the bar, to the pulpit, 
or to any public assembijr : let these be the foundation of your manner 
of pronouncing there ; and you will take the surest method of rendering 
your delivery both agreeable and persuasive. 

1 have said, let these conversation tone? be the foundation of public 
pronunciation ; for, on some occasions, solemn public speaking requires 
them to be exalted beyond the strain of common discourse. In a formal 
studied oration, the elevation of the style, and the harmony of the sen- 
tences, prompt, almost necessarily, a modulation of voice more rounded, 
and bordering more upon music, than conversation admits. This gives 
rise to what is called the declaiming manner. But though this mode of 
pronunciation runs considerably beyond ordinary discourse, yet still it 
must have for its basis, the natural tones of grave and dignified conver- 
sation. I must observe, at the same time, that the constant indulgence of 
a declamatory manner, is not favourable either to good composition, or 
good delivery ; and is in hazard of betraying public speakers into that 
monotony of tone and cadence, which is so generally complained of. 
Whereas, he who forms the general run of his delivery upon a speaking 
manner, is not likely ever to become disagreeable through monotony. 
He will have the same natural variety in his tones, which a person has in 

ideas from the more violent agitation of the passions, to the calmer feelings preduced 
by the operation of the intellect and the fancy. In short, thought is the object of the 
one, internal feeling of the other. That which serves to express the former, I call 
the language of ideas ; and the latter, the language of emotions. Words are the 
signs of theone, tones of the other. Without the use of these two sorts of language, 
it is impossible *o communicate through the ear all tlyU passes in the mind of man.'" 

Shfktpaiv on the Art, of Reading. 



le<-;t. xxxui.j of a DiricouKsL. 33^ 

conversation. Indeed the perfection of delivery requires both these 
different manners, that of speaking with liveliness and ease, and that of 
declaiming with stateliness and dignity to be possessed by one man ; and 
to be employed by him, according as the different parts of his discourse 
require either the one or the other. This is a perfection which not many 
attain ; the greatest part of public speakers allowing their delivery to be 
formed together accidentally ;. according as some turn of voice appears 
to them most beautiful, or some artificial model has caught their fancy ; 
and acquiring, by this means, a habit of pronunciation, which they can 
never vary. But the capital direction, which ought never to be forgotten, 
is, to copy the proper tones for expressing every sentiment from those 
which nature dictates to us, in conversation with others ; to speak always 
with her voice ; and not to form to ourselves a fantastic public manner^ 
from an absurd fancy of its being more beautiful than a natural one.* 

It now remains to treat of gesture, or what is called action in public 
discourse. Some nations animate their words in common. conversation, 
with many more motions of the body than others do- The French and 
the Italians are, in this respect, much more sprightly than we. But there 
is no nation, hardly any person, so phlegmatic, as not to accompany their 
words with some actions and gesticulations, on all occasions, when they 
are much in earnest. It is therefore unnatural in a public speaker, it is 
inconsistent with that earnestness and seriousness which he ought to 
show in all affairs of moment, to remain quite unmoved in his outward 
appearance ; and to let the words drop from his mouth, without any ex- 
pression of meaning, or warmth in his gesture. 

The fundamental rule, as to propriety of action, is undoubtedly the 
same with what I gave as to propriety of tone. Attend to the looks 
and gestures, in which earnestness, indignation, compassion, or any other 
emotion, discovers itself to most advantage in the common intercourse 
of men ; and let these be your model. Some of these looks and ges- 
tures are common to all men ; and there are also certain peculiarities 
of manner which distinguish every individual. A public speaker must 
take that manner which is most natural to himself. For it is here just 
as in tones. It is not the business of a speaker to form to himself a 
certain set of motions and gestures, which he thinks most becoming and 
agreeable, and to practise these in public, without their having any cor- 
respondence to the manner which is natural to him in private. His 
gestures and motions ought all to carry that kind of expression which 
nature has dictated to him ; and, unless this be the case, it is impossible, 
by means of any study, to avoid their appearing stiff and forced. 

However, although nature must be the groundwork, I admit, that 
there is room in this matter for some study and art. For many persons 
are naturally ungraceful in the motions which they make ; and this un- 
gracefulness might, in part at least, be reformed by application and 
care. The study of action in public speaking, consists chiefly in guard- 
ing against awkward and disagreeable motions, and in learning to per- 

* " Loquere," (says an author of the last century, who has written a treatise in 
verse, de Gestu et Voce Oratoris,) 

" Loquere ; hoc vitium commune, loquatur 

Ut nemo ; at tens&declamitet omnia voce. 
Tu loquere, ut mos est hominum ; boat et latrat ille ; 
Ille ululat ; rudit hie : (fari si talia dignum est) 
Non hominem vox ulla sonat ratione ioquentem." 

Joannes Lucas, de Gestu et Voce, Lib. ii. Paris, 1675. 



$gg PBONUNCiATION, OR DELIVERY £LECT. XXXLIL 

from such as are natural to the speaker, in the most becoming manner. 
For this end, it has been advised by writers on this subject, to practise 
before a mirror, where one may see and judge of his own gestures. But 
I am afraid, persons are not always the best judges of the gracefulness of 
their own motions ; and one may declaim long enough before a mirror, 
without correcting any of his faults. The judgment of a friend, whose 
good taste they can trust, will be found of much greater advantage to 
beginners, than any mirror they can use. With regard to particular rules 
concerning action and gesticulation, Quintilian has delivered a great many, 
in the last chapter of the 1 1th book of his institutions ; and all the modern 
writers on this subject have done little else but translate them. I am not 
of opinion that such rules, delivered either by the voice or on paper, can 
be of much use, unless persons saw them exemplified before their eyes.* 

1 shall only add further on this head, that in order to succeed well in 
delivery, nothing is more necessary than for a speaker to guard against 
a certain flutter of spirits, which is peculiarly incident to those who 
begin to speak in public. He must endeavour above all things to be 
recollected and master of himself. For this end, he will find nothing of 
more use to him, than to study to become wholly engaged in his subject ; 
to be possessed with a sense of its importance or seriousness ; to be 
concerned much more to persuade, than to please. He will generally 
please most, when pleasing is not his sole nor chief aim. This is the 
only rational and proper method of raising one's self above that timid 
and bashful regard to an audience, which is so ready to disconcert a 
speaker both as to what he is to say, and as to his manner of saying it. 

I cannot conclude, without an earnest admonition to guard against all 
affectation, which is the certain ruin of good delivery. Let your man- 
ner, whatever it is, be your own ; neither imitated from another, nor 
assumed upon some imaginary model, which is unnatural to you. What- 
ever is native, even though accompanied with several defects, yet is 
likely to please ; because it shows us a man ; because it has the 
appearance of coming from the heart. Whereas, a delivery, attended 
with several acquired graces and beauties, if it be not easy and free, if 
it betray the marks of art and affectation, never fails to disgust. To 

* The few following hints only I shall adventure to throw out, in case they may 
be of any service. When speaking in public, one should study to preserve as much 
dignity as possible in the whole attitude of the body. An erect posture is generally 
lo be chosen ; standing firm, so as to have the fullest and freest command of all his 
motions; any inclination which is used should be forwards towards the hearers, 
which is a natural expression of earnestness. As for the countenance, the chief 
rule is, that it should correspond with the nature of the discourse, and when no 
particular emotion is expressed, a serious and manly look is always the best. The 
eyes should never be fixed close on any one object, but move easily round the au- 
dience. In the motions made with the hands, consists the chief part of gesture in 
speaking. The ancients condemned all motions performed by the left hand alone ; 
but I am not sensible that these are always offensive, though it is natural for the 
right hand to be more frequently employed. Warm emotions demand the motion 
of both hands corresponding together. But whether one gesticulates with one or 
with both hands, it is an important rule, that all his motions should be free and easy. 
Karrow and straitened movements are generally ungraceful ; for which reason, 
motions made with the hands are directed to proceed from the shoulder rather 
than from the elbow. Perpendicular movements too with the hands, that is, in 
the straight line up and down, which Shakspeare in Hamlet, calls lt sawing the air 
with the hand," are seldom good. Oblique motions are, in general, the most 
graceful. Too sudden and nimble motions should be likewise avoided. Earnest- 
ness can be fully expressed without them. Shakspeare's directions on this head are 
full of good sense ; * use all gently," says he, il and in the very torrent and tempest 
of passion- acquire ateajoerance that roav srive it smoothness." 



LECT. XXXIV.] MEANS OF IMPROVING IN ELOQUENCE. 337 

attain any extremely correct, and perfectly graceful delivery, is what 
few can expect ; so many natural talents being requisite to concur in 
forming it. But to attain, what as to the effect i6 very little inferior, a 
forcible and persuasive manner, is within the power of most persons ; 
if they will only unlearn false and corrupt habits ; if they will allow 
themselves to follow nature, and will speak in public as they do in pri- 
vate, when they speak in earnest, and from the heart. If one has natu- 
rally any gross defects in his voice or gestures, he begins at the 
wrong end, if he attempts at reforming them only when he is to speak in 
public. He should begin with rectifying them in his private manner 
of speaking ; and then carry to the public the right habit he has formed, 
For when a speaker is engaged in a public discourse, he should not be 
then employing his attention about his manner, or thinking of his 
tones and his gestures. If he be so employed, study and affectation 
will appear. He ought to be then quite in earnest ; wholly occu- 
pied with his subject and his sentiments ; leaving nature, and pre- 
viously formed habits, to prompt and suggest his manner of delivery. 



LECURE XXXIV 



MEANS OF IMPROVING IN ELOQUENCE, 

I have now treated fully of the different kinds of public speaking, 
of the composition, and of the delivery of a discourse. Before finish- 
ing this subject, it may be of use, that I suggest some things con- 
cerning the properest means of improvement in the art of public 
speaking, and the most necessary studies for that purpose. 

To be an eloquent speaker, in the proper sense of the word, is 
far from beiDg either a common or an easy attainment. Indeed, to 
compose a florid harangue on some popular topic, and to deliver it so as 
to amuse an audience, is a matter not very difficult. But though some 
praise be due to this, yet the idea, which I have endeavoured to give of 
eloquence, is much higher. It is a great exertion of the human powers. 
It is the art of being persuasive and commanding ; the art, not of pleas- 
ing the fancy merely, but of speaking both to the understanding and to 
the heart ; of interesting the hearers in such a degree, as to seize and 
carry them along with us ; and to leave th£m with a deep and strong 
impression of what they have heard. How many talents, natural and 
acquired, must concur for carrying this to perfection ? A strong, lively, 
and warm imagination ; quick sensibility of heart, joined with solid 
judgment, good sense, and presence of mind ; all improved by great 
and long attention to style and composition ; and supported also by the 
exterior, yet important qualifications of a graceful manner, a presence 
not ungainly , and a full and tunable voice. How little reason to wonder, 
that a perfect and accomplished orator, should be one of the characters 
that is most rarely to be found ? 

Let us not despair, however. Between mediocrity and perfection 
there is a very wide interval. There are many intermediate spaces* 
whish mav be filled up with honour ; and the mof e rare and difficult that 

« 



33S MEANS OF IMPROVING IN ELOQUENCE. [LEGT. XXXIV. 

complete perfection is, the greater is the honour of approaching to it, 
though we do not fully attain it. The number of orators who stand in 
the highest class is, perhaps, smaller than the number of poets who are 
foremost in poetic fame ; but the study of oratory has this advantage 
above that of poetry, that, in poetry, one must be an eminently good per- 
former, or he is not supportable : 

Mediocribus esse Poetis 

Non homines, non Di, non concessere columnse." 

In eloquence this does not hold. There, one may possess a moderate 
station with dignity. Eloquence admits of a great many different forms ; 
plain and simple, as well as high and pathetic ; and a genius that cannot 
reach the latter, may shine with much reputation and usefulness in the 
former. 

Whether nature or art contribute most to form an orator, is a trifling 
inquiry. In all attainments whatever, nature must be the prime agent. 
She must bestow the original talents. She must sow the seeds ; but 
culture is requisite for bringing these seeds to perfection. Nature must 
alwa} r s have done somewhat ; but a great deal will always be left to be 
done by art. This is certain, that study and discipline are more neces- 
sary for the improvement of natural genius, in oratory, than they are in 
poetry. What I mean is, that though poetry be capable of receiving as- 
sistance from critical art, yet a poet, without any aid from art, by the 
force of genius alone, can rise higher than a public speaker can do, who 
has never given attention to the rules of style, composition, and delivery. 
Homer formed himself; Demosthenes and Cicero were formed by the 
help of much labour, and of many assistances derived from the labour 
of others. After these preliminary observations, let us proceed to the 
main design of this lecture ; to consider of the means to be used for 
improvement in eloquence. 

In the first place, what stands highest in the order of means, is per- 
sonal character and disposition. In order to be a truly eloquent or per- 
suasive speaker, nothing is more necessary than to be a virtuous man. 
This was a favourite position among the ancient rhetoricians : " Non 
posse oratorem esse nisi virum bonum." To find any such connexion 
between virtue and one of the highest liberal arts, must give pleasure ; 
and it can, I think, be clearly shown, that this is not a mere topic of de- 
clamation, but that the connexion here alleged, is undoubtedly founded 
in truth and reason. 

For, consider first, whether any thing contributes more to persuasion, 
than the opinion which we entertain of the probity, disinterestedness, 
candour, and other good meral qualities of the person who endeavours 
to persuade ? These give weight and force to every thing which he 
utters ; nay, they add a beauty to it ; they dispose us to listen with atten- 
tion and pleasure ; and create a secret partiality in favour of that side 
which he espouses. Whereas, if we entertain a suspicion of craft and 
disingenuity, of a corrupt, or a base mind, in the speaker, his eloquence 
loses all its real effect. It may entertain and amuse ; but it is viewed 
as artifice, as trick, as the play only of speech ; and viewed in this 
light, whom can it persuade ? We even read a book with more 
pleasure, when we think favourably of its author ; but when we have 

* For God and man, and letter'd post denies, 

Th'at Poets ever are of middling stee. Ffancib. 



LECT. XXXIV] MEANS OF IMPROVING IN ELOQUENCE. 339 

the living speaker before our eyes, addressing us personally on some 
subject of importance, the opinion we entertain of his character must 
have a much more powerful effect. 

But, lest it should be said, that this relates only to the character of 
virtue, which one may maintain, without being at the bottom a truly 
worthy man, I must observe farther, that besides the weight which it 
adds to character, real virtue operates also, in other ways, to the advan- 
tage of eloquence. 

First, nothing is so favourable as virtue to the prosecution of honour- 
able studies. It prompts a generous emulation to excel ; it inures to 
industry ; it leaves the mind vacant and free, master of itself, disencum- 
bered of those bad passions, and disengaged from those mean pursuits, 
which have ever been found the greatest enemies to true proficiency. 

Quintilian has touched this consideration very properly ; " Quod si 
agrorum niraia cura, et sollicitior rei familiaris diligentia, et venandi vo- 
luptas, et dati spectaculis dies, multum studiis auferunt, quid putamus 
facturas cupiditatem, avaritiam, invidiam ? Nihil enim est tam occupatum, 
tam multiforme, tot ac tam variis affectibus concisum, atque laceratum, 
quam mala ac improba mens. Quis inter haec, literis, aut ulli bonae 
arti, locus ? Non hercle magis quam frugibus, in terra sentibus ac rubis 
occupata ?"* 

But, besides this consideration, there is another of still higher im- 
portance, though I am not sure of its being attended to as much as it 
deserves ; namely, that from the fountain of real and genuine virtue, 
are drawn those sentiments which will ever be most powerful in affect- 
ing the hearts of others. Bad as the world is, nothing has so great and 
universal a command over the minds of men as virtue. No kind of lan- 
guage is so generally understood, and so powerfully felt, as the native 
language of worthy and virtuous feelings. He only, therefore, who 
possesses these full and strong, can speak properly, and in its own lan- 
guage, to the heart. On all great subjects and occasions, there is a 
dignity, there is an energy in noble sentiments, which is overcoming and 
irresistible. They give an ardour and a flame to one's discourse, which 
seldom fails to kindle a like flame in those who hear ; and which, more 
than any other cause, bestows on eloquence that power, for which it is 
famed, of seizing and transporting an audience. Here, art and imita- 
tion will never avail. An assumed character conveys nothing of this 
powerful warmth. It is only a native and unaffected glow of feeling, 
which can transmit the emotion to others. Hence, the most renowned 
orators, such as Cicero and Demosthenes, were no less distinguished 
for some of the high virtues, as public spirit and zeal for their country, 
than for eloquence. Beyond doubt, to these virtues their eloquence 
owed much of its effect ; and those orations of theirs, in which there 
breathes most of the virtuous and magnanimous spirit, are those which 
have most attracted the admiration of ages. 

* V If the management of an estate, if anxious attention to domestic economy, a 
passion for hunting, or whole days given up to public places of amusements, consume 
so much time that is due to study,how much greater waste must be occasioned by 
licentious desires, avarice, or envy ? Nothing is so much hurried and agitated, so 
contradictory to itself, or so violently torn and shattered by conflicting passions, as 
a bad heart, \midst the distractions which it produces, what room is left for the 
cultivation of letters, or the pursuit of any honourable art ? No more, assuredly, than 
there is for the growth of corn in a field that is overrun with fhornsand brambtest" 



^40 ME ASS OF IMPROVING IN ELOQUENCE. [LEO*. XXXLV. 

Nothing, therefore, is more necessary for those who would excel in 
any of the higher kinds of oratory, than to cultivate habits of the seve- 
ral virtues, and to refine and improve all their moral feelings. Whenever 
these become dead, or callous, they may be assured, that, on every great 
occasion, they will speak with less power, and less success. The sen- 
timents and dispositions, particularly requisite for them to cultivate, are 
the following : The love of justice and order, and indignation at inso- 
lence and oppression ; the love of honesty and truth, and detestation of 
fraud, meanness, and corruption ; magnanimity of spirit; the love of 
liberty, of their country, and the public ; zeal for all great and noble 
designs, and reverence for all worthy and heroic characters. A cold 
and sceptical turn of mind, is extremely adverse to eloquence ; and no 
less so, is that cavilling disposition which takes pleasure in depreciating 
what is great, and ridiculing what is generally admired. Such a disposi- 
tion bespeaks one not very likely to excel in any thing : but least of all 
in oratory. A true orator should be a person of generous sentiments, 
of warm feelings, and of a mind turned towards the admiration of all 
those great and high objects, which mankind are naturally formed to 
admire. Joined with the manly virtues, he should, at the same time^ 
possess strong and tender sensibilhy to all the injuries, distresses, and 
sorrows of his fellow-creatures : a heart that can easily relent ; that 
can readily enter into the circumstances of others, and can make their case 
his own. A proper mixture of courage, and of modesty, must also be 
studied by every public speaker. JModesty is essential ; it is always and 
justly supposed to be a concomitant of merit ; and every appearance of 
it is winning and prepossessing. But modesty ought not to run into ex- 
cessive timidity. Every public speaker should be able to rest some- 
what on himself, and to assume that air, not of self-complacency, but 
of firmness, which bespeaks a consciousness of his being thoroughly 
persuaded of the truth or justice of what he delivers ; a circumstance 
of no small consequence for making an impression on those who hear. 

Next to moral qualifications, what in the second place, is most neces- 
sary to an orator, is a fund of knowledge. Much is this inculcated by 
Cicero and Qiiintilian : " Quod omnibus, disciplinis et artibus debet esse 
instructus orator." By which they mean, that he ought to have what 
we call a liberal education ; and to be formed by a regular study of 
philosophy, and the polite arts. We must never forget, that 

Scribendi recte, sapere est et principium et fons. 

Good sense and knowledge are the foundation of all good speaking, 
There is no art that can teach one to be eloquent, in any sphere, with- 
out a sufficient acquaintance with what belongs to that sphere, or if there 
were any art that made such pretensions, it would be mere quackery, 
like the pretensions of the sophists of old, to teach their disciples to 
speak for and against every subject ; and would be deservedly exploded 
by all wise men. Attention to style, to composition, and all the arts of 
speech, can only assist an orator in setting off to advantage the stock 
of materials which he possesses ; but the stock, the materials themselves, 
must be brought from other quarters than from rhetoric. He who is to 
plead at the bar, must make himself thoroughly master of the know- 
ledge of tlie law ; of the learning and experience that can be useful 
in his profession, for supporting a cause or convincing a judge. He who 
is to speak from the pulpit, must apply himself closely to the study of 



LECT. XXXIV.] MEANS OF IMPROVING IN ELOQUENCE 34 1 

divinity, of practical religion, of morals, of human nature ; that he may- 
be rich in all the topics, both of instruction and persuasion. He who 
would fit himself for being a member of the supreme council of the 
nation, or of any public assembly, must be thoroughly acquainted with 
the business that belongs to such assembly ; he must study the forms of 
court, the course of procedure ; and must attend minutely to all the facts 
that may be the subject of question or deliberation. 

Besides the knowledge that properly belongs to that profession to which 
he addicts himself, a public speaker, if ever he expects to be eminent, 
must make himself acquainted, as far as his necessary occupations allow, 
with the general circle of polite literature. The study of poetry may be 
useful to him, on many occasions, for embellishing his style, for suggest- 
ing lively images, or agreeable allusions. The study of history may be 
still more useful to him ; as the knowledge of facts, of eminent charac- 
ters, and of the course of human affairs, finds place on many occasions.* 
There are few great occasions of public speaking, in which one may not 
derive assistance from cultivated taste, and extensive knowledge. They 
will often yield him materials for proper ornameot ; sometimes for argu- 
ment and real use. A deficiency of knowledge, even in subjects that 
belong not directly to his own profession, will expose him to many 
disadvantages, and give better qualified rivals a great superiority over 
him. 

Allow me to recommend, in the third place, not only the attainment 
of useful knowledge, but a habit of application and industry. Without 
this, it is impossible to excel in any thing. We must not imagine, that it 
is by a sort of mushroom growth, that one can rise to be a distinguished 
pleader, or preacher, or speaker in any assembly. It is not by starts of 
application, or by a few years preparation of study afterward discon- 
tinued, that eminence can be attained. No ; it can be attained only by 
means of regular industry, grown up into a habit, and ready to be exerted 
on every occasion that calls for industry. This is the fixed law of our 
nature ; and he must have a very high opinion of his own genius indeed, 
that can believe himself an exception to it. A very wise law of our 
nature it is ; for industry is, in truth, the great " condimentum," the 
seasoning of every pleasure ; without which life is doomed to languish. 
Nothing is so great an enemy both to honourable attainments, and to the 
real, to the brisk, and spirited enjoyment of life, as that relaxed state of 
mind which arises from indolence and dissipation. One that is destined 
to excel in any art, especially in the arts of speaking and writing, will 
be known by this more than by any other mark whatever, an enthusiasm 
for that art ; an enthusiasm, which firing his mind with the object he 
has in view, will dispose him to relish every labour which the means 
require. It was this that characterized the great men of antiquity ; 
it is this, which must distinguish the moderns who could tread in their 
steps. This honourable enthusiasm, it is highly necessary for such as 
are studying oratory to cultivate. If youth wants it, manhood will flag 
miserably. 

In the fourth place, attention to the best models will contribute greatly 
towards improvement. Every one who speaks, or writes, should, 

* " Imprimis ver6, abundare debet orator exeraplorum copia, cum veterum, turn 
etiam novorum ; adeo ut non modo qua? couscripta sunt historiis, ant sermonibus 
velut per manus tradila, quaeque quotidie aguntur, debeat nOsse ; verum ne ea qui- 
dem quae a clarioribus poetis sunt ficta negligere.' Quint. I. xii. cap. 4. 



342 MEANS OF IMPROVING IN ELOQUENCE. [LECT. XXXIV. 

indeed, endeavour to have somewhat that is his own, that is peculiar to 
himself, and that characterizes his composition and style. Slavish imi- 
tation depresses genius, or rather betrays the want of it. But withal, 
there is no genius so original, but may be profited and assisted by the 
aid of proper examples, in style, composition, and delivery. They 
always open some new ideas ; they serve to enlarge and correct our 
own. They quicken the current of thought, and excite emulation. 

Much, indeed, will depend upon the right choice of models which we 
purpose to imitate ; and supposing them rightly chosen, a farther care 
is requisite, of not being seduced by a blind universal admiration. For, 
" decipit exemplar, vitiis imitabile." Even in the most finished models 
we can select, it must not be forgotten, that there are always some things 
improper for imitation. We should study to acquire a just conception 
of the peculiar characteristic heauties of any writer, or public speaker, 
and imitate these only. One ought never to attach himself too closely 
to any single model ; for he who does so, is almost sure of being seduced 
into a faulty and affected imitation. His business should be, to draw 
from several the proper ideas of perfection. Living examples of public 
speaking, in any kind, it will not be expected that 1 should here point out. 
As to the writers, ancient and modern, from whom benefit may be derived 
in forming composition and style, 1 have spoken so much of them in former 
lectures, that it is needless to repeat what I have said of their virtues 
and defects. I own it is to be regretted, that the English language, in 
which there is much good writing, furnishes us, however, with but very 
few recorded examples of eloquent public speaking. Among the French 
there are more. Saurin, Bourdaloue, Flechier, Massillon, particularly 
the last, are eminent for the eloquence of the pulpit. But the most 
nervous and sublime of all their orators is Bossuet, the famous Bishop of 
Meaux : in whose Oraisons Funebres, there is a very high spirit of 
oratory * Some of Fontenelle's harangues to the French Academy, are 
elegant and agreeable, And at the bar, the printed pleadings of Cochin 
and D'Aguesseau, are highly extolled by the late French critics. 

There is one observation which it is of importance to make, con- 
cerning imitation of the style of any favourite author, when we would 
carry his style into public speaking. We must attend to a very material 
distinction, between written and spoken language. These are, in truth, 
two different manners of communicating ideas. A book that is to be 
read, requires one sort of style : a man that is to speak, must use an- 
other. In books, we look for correctness, precision, all redundancies 
pruned, all repetitions avoided, language completely polished. Speak- 
ing admits a more easy, copious style, and less fettered by rule; repe- 
titions may often be necessary, parentheses may sometimes be graceful, 
the same thought must often be placed in different views ; as the hearers 
can catch it only from the mouth of the speaker, and have not the advan- 
tage, as in reading a book, of turning back again, and of dwelling 
on what they do not fully comprehend. Hence the style of many good 

* The criticism which M. Crevier, author of Rhetorique Francoise, passes upon 
these writers whom 1 have above named, is, " Bossuet est grande, mais inegal ; Fle- 
chier est plus egal mais moins eleve, et souvent trop fleuri : Bourdaloue estsolide et 
judicieux, mais, il neglige les graces legeres : Massillon est plus riche en images, 
mais moins fort en raisonnement. Je souhaite done, que I'orateur ne se contente dans 
1'imitation d'un seul de ces modeles, mais qu'il tache de reunir en lui toutes leurs 
differentes vertus." Vol. II. chap, derniere. 



LECT. XXXI V.J MEANS OF IiMPROVING li\ ELOQUENCE,. 343 

authors, would appear stiff, affected, and even obscure, if, by too close 
an imitation, we should transfer it to a popular oration. How awkward, 
for example, would Lord Shaftesbury's sentences sound in the mouth of 
a public speaker ? Some kinds of public discourse, it is true, such as 
that of the pulpit, where more exact preparation, and more studied 
style are admitted, would bear such a manner better than others, which 
are expected to approach more to extemporaneous speaking. But still 
there is, in general, so much difference between speaking, and compo- 
sition designed only to be read, as should guard us against a close and 
injudicious imitation. 

Some authors there are, whose manner of writing approaches near- 
er to the style of speaking than others ; and who, therefore, can be 
imitated with more safety. In this class, among the English authors, 
are Dean Swift and Lord Bolingbroke. The Dean, throughout all his 
writings, in the midst of much correctness, maintains the easy, natural 
manner of an unaffected speaker ; and this is one of his chief excellen- 
cies. Lord Bolingbroke's style is more splendid, and more declama- 
tory than Dean Swift's ; but still it is the style of one who speaks, or 
rather who harangues. Indeed, all his political writings (for it is to 
them only, and not to his philosophical ones, that this observation can 
be applied,) carry much more the appearance of one declaiming with 
warmth in a great assembly, than of one writing in a closet, in order to 
he read by others. They have all the copiousness, the fervour, the 
inculcating method that is allowable and graceful in an orator ; perhaps 
too much of it for a writer ; and it is to be regretted, as I have former- 
ly observed, that the matter contained in them, should have been so 
trivial or so false ; for, from the manner and style, considerable advan- 
tage might be reaped. 

In the fifth place, Besides attention to the best models, frequent exer- 
cise both in composing and speaking, will be admitted to be a necessary 
mean of improvement. That sort of composition is, doubtless, most 
useful, which relates to the profession, or kind of public speaking, to 
which persons addict themselves. This they should keep ever in their 
eye, and be gradually inuring themselves to it. But let me also advise 
them, not to allow themselves in negligent composition of any kind. 
He who has it for his aim to write or to speak correctly, should, in 
the most trivial kind of composition, in writing a letter, nay, even in 
common discourse, study to acquit himself with propriety. I do not at 
all mean, that he is never to write, or to speak a word, but in elaborate 
and artificial language. This would form him to a stiffness and affecta- 
tion, worse, by ten thousand degrees, than the greatest negligence. But 
it is to be observed, that there is, in every thing, a manner which is 
becoming, and has propriety ; and opposite to it, there is a clumsy and 
faulty performance of the same thing. The becoming manner is very 
often the most light, and seemingly careless manner; but it requires 
taste and attention to seize the just idea of it. That idea, when acqui- 
red, we should keep in our eye, and form upon it whatever we write 
or say. 

Exercises of speaking have always been recommended to students, 
in order that they may prepare themselves for speaking in public, and 
on real business. The meetings, or societies, into which they some- 
times form themselves for this purpose, are laudable institutions ; and, 
under proper conduct, may serve valuable many purposes, They are 



344 MEANS' OF IMPROVING IN ELOQUENCE. [LECT. XXXIV. 

favourable to knowledge and study, by giving occasion to inquiries con- 
cerning those subjects which are made the ground of discussion. They 
produce emulation ; and gradually inure those who are concerned in 
them, to somewhat that resembles a public assembly. They accustom 
them to know their own powers, and to acquire a command of themselves 
in speaking ; and what is, perhaps, the greatest advantage of all, they 
give them" a facility and fluency of expression, and assist them in procu- 
ring that " Copia verborum," which can be acquired by no other means 
but frequent exercise in speaking. 

But the meetings which I have now in my eye, are to be understood 
of those academical associations, where a moderate number of young 
gentlemen, who are carrying on their studies, and are connected by 
some affinity in the future pursuits which they have in view, assemble 
privately, in order to improve one another, and to prepare themselves 
for those public exhibitions which may afterward fall to their lot. As 
for those public and promiscuous societies, in which multitudes are 
brought together, who are often of low stations and occupations, who 
are joined by no common bond of union, except an absurd rage for pub- 
lic speaking, and have no other object in view, but to make a show of 
their supposed talents, they are institutions not merely of a useless, 
but of a hurtful nature. They are in great hazard of proving semina- 
ries of licentiousness, petulance, faction, and folly. They mislead those 
who, in their own callings, might be useful members of society, into 
phantastic plans of making a figure on subjects, which divert their atten- 
tion from their proper b'usiness, and are widely remote from their sphere 
in life. 

Even the allowable meetings into which students of oratory form 
themselves, stand in need of direction, in order to render them useful. 
If their subjects of discourse be improperly chosen : if they maintain 
extravagant or indecent topics ; if they indulge themselves in loose 
and flimsj r declamation, which has no foundation in good sense ; or accus- 
tom themselves to speak pertly on all subjects without due preparation, 
they may improve one another in petulance, but in no other thing ; and 
will infallibly form themselves to a very faulty and vicious taste in 
speaking. I would, thorefore, advise all who are members of such so- 
cieties, in the first place, to attend to the choice of their subjects ; that 
they be useful and manly, either formed on the course of their studies, 
or on something that has relation to morals and taste, to action and life. 
In the second place, 1 would advise them to be temperate in the practice 
of speaking ; not to speak too often, nor on subjects where they are 
ignorant or unripe ; but only, when they have proper materials for a 
discourse, and have digested and thought of the subject beforehand. In 
the third place, when they do speak, they should study always to keep 
good sense and persuasion in view, rather than an ostentation of elo- 
quence ; and for this end I would, in the fourth place, repeat the ad- 
vice which I gave in a former lecture, that they should always choose 
that side of the question to which, in their own judgment, they are 
most inclined, as the right and the true side ; and defend it by such argu- 
ments as seem to them most solid. By these means, they will take the 
best method of forming themselves gradually to a manly, correct, and 
persuasive manner of speaking. 

It now only remains to inquire, of what use may the study of critical 
and rhetorical writers be. for improving one in the practice of elo- 



LECT. XXXIV.] MEANS OF IMPROVING IN ELOQUENCE. 345 

quence ? These are certainly not to be neglected ; and yet I dare not 
say that much is to be expected from them. For professed writers on 
public speaking, we must look chiefly among the ancients. In modern 
times, for reasons which were before given, popular eloquence, as an 
art, has never been very much the object of study ; it has not the same 
powerful effects among us that it had in more democratical states ; and there- 
fore has not been cultivated with the same care. Among the moderns, 
though there has been a great deal of good criticism on the different 
kinds of writing, yet much has not been attempted on the subject of 
eloquence, or public discourse ; and what has been given us of that 
kind, has been drawn mostly from the ancients. Such a writer as Joan- 
nes Gerardus Vossius, who has gathered into one heap of ponderous 
lumber, all the trifling, as well as the useful things, that are to be found 
in the Greek and Roman writers, is enough to disgust one with the study 
of eloquence. Among the French there has been more attempted, on 
this subject, than among the English, The Bishop of Cambray's wri- 
tings on eloquence, I before mentioned with honour. Rollin, Batteux, 
Crevier, Gibert, and several other French critics, have also written on 
oratory ; but though some of them may be useful, none of them are so 
considerable as to deserve particular recommendation. 

It is to the original ancient writers that we must chiefly have recourse; 
and it is a reproach to any one, whose profession calls him to speak in 
public, to be unacquainted with them. In ail the ancient rhetorical 
writers, there is, indeed, this defect, that they are too systematical, as I 
formerly showed ; they aim at doing too much ; at reducing rhetoric to 
a complete and perfect art, which may even supply invention with ma- 
terials on every subject ; insomuch, that one would imagine they expect- 
ed to form an orator by rule, in as mechanical a manner as one would 
form a carpenter. Whereas, all that can, in truth, be done, is to give 
openings for assisting and enlightening taste, and for pointing out to ge- 
nius the course it ought to hold. 

Aristotle laid the foundation for all that was afterward written on the 
subject. That amazing and comprehensive genius, which does honour 
to human nature, and which gave light into so many different sciences, 
has investigated the principles of rhetoric with great penetration. Aris- 
totle appears to have been the first who took rhetoric out of the hands 
of the sophists, and introduced reasoning and good sense into the art. 
Some of the profoundest things which have been written on the passions 
and manners of men, are to be found in his Treatise on Rhetoric ; 
though in this, as in all his writings, his great brevity often renders him 
obscure. Succeeding Greek rhetoricians, most of whom are now lost, 
improved on the foundation which Aristotle had laid. Two of them 
still remain, Demetrius Phalereus, and Dionysius of Halicarnassus ; both 
write on the construction of sentences, and deserve to be perused ; es- 
pecially Dionysius, who is a very accurate and judicious critic. 

I need scarcely recommend the rhetorical writings of Cicero. What- 
ever, on the subject of eloquence, comes from so great an orator, must 
be worthy of attention. His most considerable work on this subject is 
that De Oratore, in three books. None of Cicero's writings are more 
highly finished than this treatise. The dialogue is polite ; the charac- 
ters are well supported, and the conduct of the whole is beautiful and 
agreeable. It is, indeed, full of digressions, and his rules and observa- 
tions may be thought sometimes too vague and general. Useful things 



346 COMPARATIVE MERIT OF jLECT. XXXV, 

however, may be learned from it ; and it is no small benefit to be made 
acquainted with Cicero's own idea of eloquence. The % ' Orator ad M. 
Brutum," is also a considerable treatise ; and, in general, throughout all 
Cicero's rhetorical works, there run those high and sublime ideas of 
eloquence, which are fitted both for forming a just taste, and for creating 
that enthusiasm for the art, which is of the greatest consequence for ex- 
celling in it. 

But of all the ancient writers on the subject of oratory, the most in- 
structive, and most useful, is Quintilian. I know few books which abound 
more with good sense, and discover a greater degree of just and accu- 
rate taste, than Quinlilian's institutions. Almost all the principles of 
good criticism are to be found in them. He has digested into excellent 
order all the ancient ideas concerning rhetoric, and is, at the same time, 
himself an eloquent writer. Though some parts of his work contain 
too much of the technical and artificial system then in vogue, and for 
that reason may be thought dry and tedious, yet I would not advise the 
omitting to read any part of his institutions. To pleaders at the bar, 
even these technical parts may prove of some use. Seldom has any 
person, of more sound and distinct judgment than Quintilian, applied 
himself to the study of the art of oratory. 



LECTURE XXXV 



COMPARATIVE MERIT OF THE ANCIENTS AND THE MODERNS.— 
HISTORICAL WRITING. 

I have now finished that part of the course which respected oratory 
or public speaking, and which, as far as the subject allowed, I have en- 
deavoured to form into some sort of system. It remains, that I enter 
on the consideration of the most distinguished kinds of composition, 
both in prose and verse, and point out the principles of criticism relating 
to them. This part of the work might easily be drawn out to a great 
length ; but I am sensible, that critical discussions, when they are pur- 
sued too far, become both trifling and tedious. I shall study, therefore, 
to avoid unnecessary prolixity ; and hope, at the same time, to omit 
nothing that is very material under the several heads. 

I shall follow the same method here which I have all along pursued, 
and without which, these lectures could not be entitled to any attention ; 
that is, I shall freely deliver rny own opinion on every subject ; regard- 
ing authority no farther, than as it appears to me founded on good sense 
and reason. In former lectures, as I have often quoted several of the 
ancient classics for their beauties, so I have also, sometimes, pointed 
out their defects. Hereafter, I shall have occasion to do the same, when 
treating of their writings under more general heads. It may be fit. 
therefore, that before I proceed farther, I make some observations on 
the comparative merit of the ancients and the moderns : in order that 
we may be able to ascertain rationally, upon what foundation that de- 
ference rests, which has so generally been paid to the ancients. 
These observations are the more necessary, as this subject has given 



LECT. XXXV.} THE ANCIENTS AND THE MODERNS. 347 

rise to no small controversy in the republic of letters ; and they may 5 
with propriety, be made now, as they will serve to throw light on some 
things I have afterward to deliver, concerning different kinds of com- 
position. 

It is a remarkable phenomenon, and one which has often employed 
the speculations of curious men, that writers and artists, most distin- 
guished for their parts and genius, have generally appeared in consider- 
able numbers at a time. Some ages have been remarkably barren in 
them ; while, at other periods, nature seems to have exerted herself 
with more than ordinary effort, and to have poured them forth with a 
profuse fertility. Various reasons have been assigned for this. Some 
of the moral causes lie obvious ; such as favourable circumstances of 
government and of manners ; encouragement from great men ; emula- 
tion excited among the men of genius. But as these have been thought 
inadequate to the whole effect, physical causes have been also assigned; 
and the Abbe du Bos, in his reflections on poetry and painting, has col- 
lected a great many observations on the influence which the air, the 
climate, and other such natural causes, may be supposed to have upon 
genius. But whatever the causes be, the fact is certain, that there 
have been certain periods or ages of the world much more distinguish- 
ed than others, for the extraordinary productions of genius. 

Learned men have marked out four of these happy ages. The first 
is the Grecian age, which commenced near the time of the Peloponne- 
sian war, and extended till the time of Alexander the Great ; within 
which period, we have Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon, Socrates, 
Plato, Aristotle, Demosthenes, JEschines, Lysias, Isocrates, Pindar, 
JEschylus, Euripides, Sophocles, Aristophanes, Menander, Anacreon, 
Theocritus, Lysippus, Appelles, Phidias, Praxiteles. The second, is 
the Roman age, included nearly within the days of Julius Caesar and 
Augustus ; affording us Catullus, Lucretius, Terence, Virgil, Horace, 
Tibullus, Propertius, Ovid, Phsedrus, Caesar, Cicero, Livy, Sallust, 
Varro, and Vitruvius. The third age is, that of the restoration of 
learning, under the Popes Julius II. and Leo X ; when flourished Arios- 
to, Tasso, Sannazarius, Vida, Machiavel, Guicciardini, Davila, Eras- 
mus, Paul Jovius, Michael Angelo, Raphael, Titian. The fourth com- 
prehends the age of Louis the XIV. and Queen Anne, when flourished 
in France, Corneille, Racine, De Retz, Moliere, Boileau, Fontaine, 
Baptiste, Rousseau, Bossuet, Fenelon, Bourdaloue, Pascal, Male- 
branche, Massillon, Bruyere, Bayle, Fontenelle, Vertot : and in Eng- 
land, Dryden, Pope, Addison, Prior, Swift, Parnell, Arbuthnot, Con- 
greve, Otway, Young, Rowe, Atterbury, Shaftesbury, Bolingbroke, 
Tillotson, Temple, Boyle, Locke, Newton, Clarke. 

When we speak compartively of the ancients and the moderns, we 
generally mean by the ancients, such as lived in the two first of these 
periods, including also one or two who lived more early, as Homer in 
particular; and by the moderns, those who flourished in the two last 
of these ages, including also the eminent writers down to our own times. 
Any comparison between these two classes of writers, must necessarily 
be vague and loose, as they comprehend so many, and of such differ- 
ent kinds and degrees of genius. But the comparison is generally made 
to turn, by those w.ho are fond of making it, upon two or three of the 
most distinguished in each class. With much heat it was agitated in 
France, between Boileau and Mad. Dacier, on the one hand, for the an- 



348 COMPARATIVE MERIT OF [£ECt. XXXV , 

cients, and PeFauIt and La Motte, on the other, for the moderns ; and 
it was carried to extremes on both sides. To this day, among men of 
taste and letters, we find a leaning to one or other side. A few reflec- 
tions may throw light upon the subject, and enable us to discern upon 
what grounds we are to rest our judgment in this controversy. 

If any one, at this day, in the eighteenth century, takes upon him to 
decry the ancient classics ; if he pretends to have discovered that Homer 
and Virgil are poets of inconsiderable merit, and that Demosthenes and 
Cicero are not great orators, we may boldly venture to tell such a man, 
that he is come too late with his discovery. The reputation of such 
writers is established upon a foundation too solid to be now shaken by 
any arguments whatever ; for it is established upon that almost universal 
taste of mankind, proved and tried throughout the succession of so many 
ages. Imperfections in their works he may indeed point out ; passages 
that are faulty he may show : for where is the human work that is per- 
fect ? But if he attempts to discredit their works in general, or to prove 
that the reputation which they gained is, on the whole, unjust, there 
is an argument against him, which is equal to full demonstration. He 
must be in the wrong, for human nature is against him. In matters of 
taste, such as poetry and oratory, to whom does the appeal lie ? where 
is the standard ? and where the authority of the last decision ? where is 
it to be looked for, but, as I formerly showed, in those feelings and sen- 
timents that are found, on the most extensive examination, to be the com- 
mon sentiments and feelings of men ? These have been fully consulted 
on this head. The public, the unprejudiced public, has been tried and 
appealed to for many centuries, and throughout almost all civilized 
nations. It has pronounced its verdict ; it has given its sanction to those 
writers ; and from this tribunal there lies no farther appeal. 

In matters of mere reasoning, the world may be long in an error ; and 
maybe convinced of the error by stronger reasonings, when produced. 
Positions that depend upon science, upon knowledge, and matters of 
fact, may be overturned according as science and knowledge are enlar- 
ged, and new matters of fact are brought to light. For this reason, a 
system of philosophy receives no sufficient sanction from its antiquity, 
or long currency. The world, as it grows older, may be justly expected 
to become, if not wiser, at least more knowing ; and supposing it doubt- 
ful, whether Aristotle or Newton were the greater genius, yet Newton's 
philosophy may prevail over Aristotle's by means of later discoveries, to 
which Aristotle was a stranger. But nothing of this kind holds as to 
matters of taste ; which depend not on the progress of knowledge 
and science, but upon sentiment and feeling. It is in vain to think of 
undeceiving mankind, with respect to errors committed here, as in philo- 
sophy. For the universal feeling of mankind is the natural feeling ; and 
because it is the natural, it is, for that reason, the right feeling. The 
reputation of the Iliad and the iEneid must therefore stand upon sure 
ground, because it has stood so long ; though that of the Aristotelian or 
Platonic philosophy, every one is at liberty to call in question. 

It is in vain also to allege, that the reputation of the ancient poets, 
and orators, is owing to authority, to pedantry, and to the prejudices of 
education transmitted from age to age. These, it is true, are the au- 
thors put into our hands at schools and colleges, and by that means we 
have now an early prepossession in their favour ; but how came they to 
gain the possession of colleges and schools ? Plainly, by the high fame 



LECT. XXXV.] THE ANCIENTS AND THE MODERNS. 349 

which these authors had among their own contemporaries. For the 
Greek and Latin were not always dead languages. There was a time 
when Homer, and Virgil, and Horace, were viewed in the same light as 
we now view Dryden, Pope, and Addison. It is not to commentators and 
universities, that the classics are indebted for their fame. They became 
classics and school-books, in consequence of the high admiration which 
was paid them by the best judges in their own country and nation. As 
early as the days of Juvenal, who wrote under the reign of Domitian, 
we find Virgil and Horace become the standard books in the education 
of youth. 

Quot stabant pueri, cum totos decolor esset 

Flaccus, et haereret nigro fuligo Maroni." Sat. 7. 

From this general principle, then, of the reputation of the great an- 
cient classics being so early, so lasting, so extensive among all the most 
polished nations, we may justly and boldly infer that their reputation 
cannot be wholly unjust, but must have a solid foundation in the merit of 
their writings. 

Let us guard, however, against a blind and implicit veneration for the 
ancients in every thing. I have opened the general principle, which 
must go far in instituting a fair comparison between them and the 
moderns. Whatever superiority the ancients may have had in point 
of genius, yet in all arts, where the natural progress of knowledge has 
had room to produce any considerable effects, the moderns cannot but 
have some advantage. The world may, in certain respects, be consi- 
dered as a person, who must needs gain somewhat by advancing in years, 
Its improvements have not, I confess, been always in proportion to the 
centuries that have passed over it ; for, during the course of some ages, 
it has sunk as into a total lethargy. Yet, when roused from that 
lethargy, it has generally been able to avail itself more or less, of former 
discoveries. At intervals, there arose some happy genius, who could 
both improve on what had gone before, and invent something new. 
With the advantage of a proper stock of materials, an inferior genius 
can make greater progress, than a much superior one, to whom these 
materials are wanting. 

Hence, in natural philosophy, astronomy, chemistry, and other sciences 
that depend on an extensive knowledge and observation of facts, modern 
philosophers have an unquestionable superiority over the ancient. I am 
inclined also to think, that in matters of pure reasoning, there is more 
precision among the moderns, than in some instances there was among 
the ancients ; owing perhaps to a more extensive literary intercourse, 
which has improved and sharpened the faculties of men. In some studies 
too, that relate to taste and fine writing, which is our object, the progress 
of society must, in equity, be admitted to have given us some advantages. 
For instance, in history, there is certainly more political knowledge in 
several European nations at present than there was in ancient Greece and 
Rome. We are better acquainted with the nature of government, be- 
cause we have seen it under a greater variety of forms and revolutions. 
The world is more laid open than it was in former times ; commerce is 
greatly enlarged ; more countries are civilized ; posts are every where 

* " Then thou art bound to smell, on either hand. 
As many stinking lamps, as schoolboys stand, 
When Horace could not read in his own sullied book, 
And Virgil's sacred page was all besmear'd with smoke," Dryden; 



350 COMPARATIVE MERIT OF [LECT. XXXV. 

established ; intercourse is become more easy ; and the knowledge of 
facts, by consequence, more attainable. All these are great advantages 
to historians ; of which, in some measure, as I shall afterward show, 
they have availed themselves. In the more complex kinds of poetry, 
likewise, we may have gained somewhat, perhaps, in point of regularity 
and accuracy. In dramatic performances, having the advantage of the 
ancient models, we may be allowed to have made some improvements in 
the variety of the characters, the conduct of the plot, attentions to pro- 
bability, and to decorums. 

These seem to me the chief points of superiority we can pleao above 
the ancients. Neither do they extend as far as might be imagined at 
first view. For if the strength of genius be on one side, it will go far, 
in works of taste at least, to counterbalance all the artificial improve- 
ments which can be made by greater knowledge and correctness. To 
return to our comparison of the age of the world with that of a man ; 
it may be said, not altogether without reason, that if the advancing age 
of the world bring along with it more science and more refinement, there 
belong, however, to its earlier periods, more vigour, more fire, more 
enthusiasm of genius. This appears indeed to form the characteristical 
difference between the ancient poets, orators, and historians, compared 
with the modern. Among the ancients, we find higher conceptions, 
greater simplicity, more original fancy. Among the moderns, sometimes 
more art and correctness, but feebler exertions ot genius. But, though 
this be in general a mark of distinction between the ancients and moderns, 
yet, like all general observations, it must be understood with some 
exceptions ; for in point of poetical fire and original genius, Milton and 
Shakspeare are inferior to no poets in any age. 

It is proper to observe, that there were some circumstances in ancient 
times, very favourable to those uncommon efforts of genius which were 
then exerted. Learning was a much more rare and singular attainment 
in the earlier ages, than it is at present. It was not to schools and uni- 
versities that the persons applied, who sought to distinguish themselves. 
They had not this easy recourse. They travelled for their improvement 
into distant countries, to Egypt, and to the East. They inquired after 
all the monuments of learning there. They conversed with priests, 
philosophers, poets, with all who had acquired any distinguished fame. 
They returned to their own country full of the discoveries which they 
had made, and fired by the new and uncommon objects which they had 
seen. Their knowledge and improvements cost them more labour, 
raised in them more enthusiasm, were attended with higher rewards 
and honours, than in modern days. Fewer had the means and 
opportunities of distinguishing themselves than now ; but such as did 
distinguish themselves, were sure of acquiring that fame, and even ve- 
neration, which is, of nil rewards the greatest incentive to genius. He- 
rodotus read his hiscory to ail Greece assembled at the Olympic 
games, and was publicly crowned. In the Peloponnesian war, when 
the Athenian army was defeated in Sicily, and the prisoners were order- 
ed to be put to death, such of them as could repeat any verses of 
Euripides were saved, from honour to that poet, who w T as a citizen of 
Athens. These w r ere testimonies of public regard, far beyond what 
modern manners confer upon genius. 

In our times, good writing is considered as an attainment neither so 
difficult, nor so high and meritorious. 



LECT. XXXV.j THE ANCIENTS AN© THE MODERNS. 351 

Scribimus indocti, doctique, Poemata passim.- 

We write much more supinely, and at our ease, than the ancients. To 
excel, is become a much less considerable object. Less effort, less ex- 
ertion is required, because we have many more assistances than they. 
Printing has rendered all books common, and easy to be had. Educa- 
tion for any of the learned professions can be carried on without much 
trouble. Hence a mediocrity of genius is spread over all. But to rise 
beyond that, and to overtop the crowd, is given to few. The multitude of 
assistances which we have for all kinds of composition, in the opinion 
of Sir William Temple, a very competent judge, rather depresses, than 
favours, the exertions of native genius. " It is very possible," says that 
ingenious author, in his Essay on the Ancients and Moderns, " that 
men may lose rather than gain by these ; may lessen the force of their 
own genius, by forming it upon that of others ; may have less know- 
ledge of their own, for contenting themselves with that of those before 
them. So a man that only translates, shall never be a poet ; so people 
that trust to others' charity, rather than their own industry, will always 
be poor. " Who can tell," he adds, u whether learning may not even 
weaken invention, in a man that has great advantages from nature ? 
Whether the weight and number of so many other men's thoughts and 
notions may not suppress his own ; as heaping on wood sometimes sup- 
presses a little spark, that would otherwise have grown into a flame ? 
The strength of mind, as well as of body, grows more from the warmth 
of exercise, than of clothes ; nay, too much of this foreign heat, rather 
makes men faint, and their constitutions weaker than they would be 
without them." 

From whatever cause it happens, so it is, that among some of the 
ancient writers, we must look for the highest models in most of the kinds 
of elegant composition. For accurate thinking and enlarged ideas, in 
several parts of philosophy, to the moderns we ought chiefly to have 
recourse. Of correct and flnished writing in some works of taste, they 
may afford useful patterns ; but for all that belongs to original genius 3 
to spirited, masterly, and high execution, our best and most happy 
ideas are, generally speaking, drawn from the ancients. In epic poetry, 
for instance, Homer and Virgil, to this day, stand not within many de- 
grees of any rival. Orators, such as Cicero and Demosthenes, we have 
none. In history, notwithstanding some defects,, which 1 am afterward 
to mention in the ancient historical plans, it may be safely asserted, that 
we have no such historical narration, so elegant, so picturesque, so 
animated, and interesting as that of Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon, 
Livy, Tacitus, and Sallust. Although the conduct of the drama may be 
admitted to have received some improvements, yet for poetry and sen- 
timent we have nothing to equal Sophocles and Euripides ; nor any dia- 
logue in comedy, that comes up to the correct, graceful, and elegant sim- 
plicity of Terence. We have no such love elegies as those of Tibul- 
lus ; no such pastorals as some of Theocritus's ; and for lyric poetry, 
Horace stands quite unrivalled. The name of Horace cannot be men- 
tioned without a particular encomium. That " Curiosa Felicitas," which 
Petronius has remarked in his expression ; the sweetness, elegance> 

" Now every desp'rate blockhead dares to write ; 

Verse is the trade of every living wight" Francis. 



352 HISTORICAL WRITING. [LECT. XXX VV 

and spirit of many of his odes, the thorough knowledge of the world, 
the excellent sentiments, and natural easy manner which distinguish 
his satires and epistles, all contribute to render him one of those very 
few authors whom one never tires of reading ; and from whom alone, 
were every other monument destroyed, we should be led to forma very 
high idea of the taste and genius of the Augustan age. 

To all such then, as wish to form their taste and nourish their genius, 
let me warmly recommend the assiduous study of the ancient classics, 
both Greek and £oman. 

Nocturn& versate manu, versate diurna.* 

Without a considerable acquaintance with them, no man can be reck- 
oned a polite scholar ; and he will want many assistances for writing 
and speaking well, which the knowledge of such authors would afford 
him. Any one has great reason to suspect his own taste, who receives 
little or no pleasure from the perusal of writings, which so many ages 
and nations have consented in holding up as objects of admiration. And 
I am persuaded, it will be found, that in proportion as the ancients are 
generally studied and admired, or are unknown and disregarded in any 
country, good taste and good composition will flourish, or decline. They 
are commonly none but the ignorant or superficial, who undervalue 
them. 

At the same time, a just and high regard for the prime writers of an- 
tiquity is to be always distinguished, from that contempt of every thing 
that is modern, and that blind veneration for all that has been written in 
Greek or Latin, which belongs only to pedants. Among the Greek and 
Roman authors, some assuredly deserve much higher regard than others ; 
nay, some are of no great value. Even the best of them lie open occa- 
sionally to just censure ; for to no human performace is it given to be 
absolutely perfect. We may, we ought, therefore, to read them with a 
distinguishing eye, so as to propose for imitation their beauties only ; 
and it is perfectly consistent with just and candid criticism, to find fault 
with parts, while, at the same time, it admires the whole. 

After these reflections on the ancients and moderns, I proceed to a 
critical examination of the most distinguished kinds of composition, and 
the characters of those writers who have excelled in them, whether 
modern or ancient. 

The most general division of the different kinds of composition is, 
into those written in prose, and those written in verse ; which certainly 
require to be separately considered, because subject to separate laws. 
I begin, as is most natural, with writings in prose. Of orations, or pub- 
lic discourses of all kinds, I have already treated fully. The remaining 
species of prose compositions, which assume any such regular form, as 
to fall under the cognizance of criticism, seem to be chiefly these : his- 
torical writing, philosophical writing, epistolary writing, and fictitious 
history. Historical composition shall be first considered ; and, as it is 
an object of dignity, I purpose to treat of it at some length. 

As it is the office of an orator to persuade, it is that of an historian to 
record truth for the instruction of mankind. This is the proper object 
and end of history, from which may be deduced many of the laws rela- 
ting to it ; and if this object were always kept in view, it would prevent 

* " Read them by day, and study them by night.'' Francis. 



LECT. XXX'V.J JtllSTORlC AL WRITING 353 

many of the errors into which persons are apt to fall concerning thi3 
species of composition. As the primary end of history is to record 
truth, impartiality, fidelity, and accuracy, are the fundamental qualities 
of an historian. He must neither be a panegyrist nor a satirist. He 
must not enter into faction, nor give scope to affection : but, contem- 
plating past events and characters with a cool and dispassionate eye, must 
present to his readers a faithful copy of human nature. 

At the same time, it is not every record of facts, however true, that 
is entitled to the name of history ; but such a record as enables us to 
apply the transactions of former ages for our Own instruction. The facts 
ought to be momentous and important : represented in connexion with 
their causes, traced to their effects ; and unfolded in clear and distinct 
order. For wisdom is the great end of history. It is designed to sup- 
ply the want of experience. Though it enforce not its instructions, with 
the same authority, yet it furnishes us with a greater variety of instruc- 
tions, than it is possible for experience to afford, in the course of the 
longest life. Its object is to enlarge our views of the human character, 
and to give full exercise to our judgment on human affairs. It must not 
therefore be a tale, calculated to please only, and addressed to the fancy. 
Gravit}' and dignity are essential characteristics of history ; no light or- 
naments are to be employed, no flippancy of style, no quaintness of wit. 
But the writer must sustain the character of a wise man, writing for the 
instruction of posterity ; one who has studied to inform himself well, who 
has pondered his subject with care, and addresses himself to our judg- 
ment, rather than to our imagination. Not that this is inconsistent with 
ornamented and spirited narration. History admits of much high orna- 
ment and elegance ; but the ornaments must be always consistent with 
dignity ; they should not appear to be sought after ; but to rise naturally 
from a mind animated by the events which it records. 

Historical composition is understood to comprehend under it, annals, 
memoirs, lives. But these are its inferior subordinate species ; on 
which I shall hereafter make some reflections, when I shall have first 
considered What belongs to a regular and legitimate work of history. 
Such a work is chiefly of two kinds, either the entire history of some 
state or kingdom through its different revolutions, such as Livy's Roman 
history; or the history of some one great event, or some portion or 
period of time which may be considered as making a whole by itself; 
such as, Thucydides's History of the Peloponnesian War, Davila-s 
History of the Civil Wars of France, or Clarendon's of those of Eng 
land. 

In the conduct and management of his subject, the first attention 
requisite in an historian, is to give it as much unity as possible ; that is, 
his history should not consist of separate unconnected parts merely, but 
should be bound together by some connecting principle, which shall 
make the impression on the mind of something that is one, whole and 
entire. It is inconceivable how great an effect this, when happily exe- 
cuted, has upon a reader, and it is surprising that some able writers of 
history have not attended to it more. Whether pleasure or instruction 
be the end sought by the study of history, either of them is enjoyed 
to much greater advantage, when the mind has always before it the pro- 
gress of some one great plan or system of actions ; when there is some 
point or centre, to which we can refer the various facts related by tha 
historian 

Y v 



354 HISTORICAL WRITING; [LEC1\ XXXV. 

In general histories, which record the affairs of a whole nation or 
empire throughout several ages, this unity, I confess, must be more 
imperfect. Yet even there, some degree of it can be preserved by a 
skilful writer. For though the whole, taken together, be very complex, 
yet the great constituent parts of it form so many subordinate wholes, 
when taken by themselves ; each of which can be treated both as com- 
plete within itself, and as connected with what goes before and follows, 
in the history of a monarchy, for instance, every reign should have its 
own unity ; a beginning, a middle, and an end, to the system of affairs ; 
while, at the same time, we are taught to discern how that system of 
affairs rose from the preceding, and how it is inserted into what follows. 
We should be able to trace all the secret links of the chain, which binds 
together remote, and seemingly unconnected events. In some king- 
doms of Europe, it was the plan of many successive princes to reduce 
the power of their nobles •; and during several reigns, most of the lead- 
ing actions had a reference to this end. In other states, the rising power 
of the commons, influenced for a tract of time, the course and connex- 
ion of public affairs. Among the Romans, the leading principle was a 
gradual extension of conquest and the attainment of universal empire. 
The continual increase of their power, advancing towards this end from 
small beginnings, and by a sort of regular progressive plan, furnished 
to Livy a happy subject for historical unity, in the midst of a great va- 
riety of transactions. 

Of all the ancient general historians, the one who had the most exact 
idea of this quality of historical composition, though, in other respects, 
not an elegant writer, is Polybius. This appears from the account he 
gives of his own plan in the beginning of his third book ; observing that 
the subject of which he had undertaken to write, is, throughout the 
whole of it, one action, one great spectacle ; how, and by what causes, 
all the parts of the habitable world became subject to the Roman em- 
pire. " This action," says he, " is distinct in its beginning, determined 
in its duration, and clear in its final accomplishment ; therefore, I think 
it of use, to give a general view beforehand, of the chief constituent 
parts which make up this whole." In another place he congratulates 
himself on his good fortune, in having a subject for history, which al- 
lowed such variety of parts to be united under one view ; remarking, 
that before this period, the affairs of the world were scattered, and 
without connexion ; whereas, in the times of which he writes, all the 
great transactions of the world tended and verged to one point, and were 
capable of being considered as parts of one system. Whereupon he 
adds several very judicious observations, concerning the usefulness of 
writing history upon such a comprehensive and connected plan ; com- 
paring the imperfect degree of knowledge, which is afforded by particu- 
lar facts without general views, to the imperfect idea which one would 
entertain of an animal, who had beheld its separate parts only, without 
having ever seen its entire form and structure.* 

* Ka&uku /u.sv ya% epioeye JoKovrtv ot ifttfHvyfaoi J/i ths Kara /uego? tVog/4; /uergiees avvo-^itrBou 
<ra ohd, ■KX.g'U.irKyio-iov rt 7raQ-%jsiVy ^ av et rtvH sju^v^y kcli KsthS a-JjfAarcg Juppo/uzva tol fjagu <&&{> 
pivot, vofAi^otzy ixAiZc dLUTOirrc/.i ytyveo-Qat t»; hzpytiac uvrov rtt £wqu nat Kcth\ovns- zt ydg t/c 
Scurixa y.ab.0. o-vvBi'h x.at rzxuov auQts (nrigya.cray.zvo( to ^Zev, ra> tz ttS~ii £z <r» w«? ^X/is zv7rg$- 

TU*) KcbrltTA TtCLktV iTrlSiiwVM TQlQ aJVTO/f ZHilVOlS, TCtyZCOC OlV OljUAl TTuVTaC O.VTCVS oy.o\oymzv) 

ifre Ti zxt yiav rfoxu ti t»; ahtftiifi: d^.srrcm •gd&wi'j v.%t Tat^cc-xhwrn rots oYit^/rloovtv fociy. 



LECT. XXXV. J HISTORICAL WRITING. 3$$ 

Such as write the history of some particular great transaction, as con- 
fine themselves to one era, or one portion of the history of a nation, 
have so great advantages for preserving historical unity, that they are 
inexcusable if they fail in it. Sallust's histories of the Catilinarian and 
Jugurthine wars, Xenophon's Cyropaedia, and his retreat of the ten 
thousand, are instances of particular histories, where the unity of histo- 
rical object is perfectly well maintained. Thucydides, otherwise a writer 
of great strength and dignity, has failed much, in this article, in his his- 
tory of the Peloponnesian war. No one great object is properly pursued, 
and kept in view ; but his narration is cut down into small pieces ; his 
history is divided by summers and winters, and we are every now and 
then leaving transactions unfinished, and are hurried from place to place, 
from Athens to Sicily, from thence to Peloponnesus, to Corcyra, to Mity- 
lene, that we may be told of what is going on in all these places. We 
have a great many disjointed parts, and scattered limbs, which with 
difficulty we collect into one body ; and through this faulty distribution 
and management of his subject, that judicious historian becomes more 
tiresome, and less agreeable than he would otherwise be. For these 
reasons he is severely censured by one of the best critics of antiquity, 
Dyonysius of Haiicarnassus.* 

The historian must not indeed neglect chronological order, with a 
view to render his narration agreeable. He must give a distinct account 
of the dates, and of the coincidence of facts. But he is not under the 
necessity of breaking off always in the middle of transactions, in order 
to inform us of what was happening elsewhere at the same time. He 
discovers no art, if he cannot form some connexion among the affairs 
which he relates, so as to introduce them in a proper train. He will 



spiaiav (*h yd% KctSuv cL7ro {jt-igHi ?Zv o\a>v fuvarov. km?»fJi>)V cTs nai yvJj/utnv aTgai« z%tiv aJi/vst-Toy. 
tfto T:!tvle\u>>; @%z<x? ri vo/ittsiov o-v/yt,Cx.fa.zo-Qxi t»'v x,zrd y.igo$ ig-c^iu.v 7tqc; t«v tZv ohcev z//.T:ttpi(iv 
Kai Ttt^lv, \k (j.h TOiye tjk airavrov irgog aWiDXa ervuTrhoKng x.ai ira^ABzo-eaig^ ffrt (T o/ucoiowrog kai 
fiaqogag fxova; av Tig zty'tKoflo xu) S"vvnBun K&TQ7rliv<rug ay.a. x.a) to WHO-tfAW Kat to TZPTrvov, ac 
t»5 <Vogw? yaCuv. Polyb. Histor. Prim. 

• ; The censure which Dionysius passes upon Thucydides, is, in several articles, car- 
ried too far He blames him for the choice of his subject, as not sufficiently splendid 
and agreeable, and as abounding too much in crimes and melancholy events, on 
which he observes that Thucydides loves to dwell. He is partial to Herodotus, 
whom, both for the choice and the conduct of his subject, lie prefers to the other 
historian. It is true, that the subject of Thucydides wants the gayety and splendour 
of that of Herodotus ; but it is not deficient in dignity. The Peloponnesian war 
was the contest between two great rival powers, the Athenian and Lacedemonian 
states, for the empire of Greece. Herodotus loves to dwell on prosperous incidents, 
and retains somewhat of the amusing manner of the ancient poetical historians, but 
Herodotus wrote to the imagination. Thucydides writes to the understanding. He 
was a grave reflecting man, well acquainted with human life ; and the melancholy 
events and catastrophes which he records, are often both the most interesting parts 
of history, and the most improving (o the heart. 

The critic's observations on the faulty distribution which Thucydides makes of 
his subject, are better founded, and his preference of Herodotus, in this respect, is 
not unjust— 0«xi/Ji(T»c juzv toic %govois oxokhQcov, 'HgcJWo? Si Tcttg iriPio^aug toov 7rgayfs.aTa>v f 
ytyviral QtsKuSiSiig ao-a<t»ig «M Suo-Tr^aicoKuSiiTog' TroXKcev yxg x.'at& to auto 3"Sgo? nctt ft-i/nav* 
yiyva/uMuv zv S l*.<$opatg T07roig. hyATihilg tag Tr^TAg aga^zig xaTctMirw , ztzpocv cnrTZTat <rw 
KAT'-t ro ajiTO &t£og itat ^zi/ueeva yiyvo/uzvuv. TTXavafxzBa. Syi zzQunzp zatog, xcli Su<tko\u>s rag 

SuKHfAiViig 7r4.QUK0Ab8tty.iV- 2,»{a£z£»KZ QnKvSlStt /UtZV UTToQiQ-tV KuCoVTt TtOK\Ct ir0i»roU fXZPYt TO fy 

ercefASL. 'HgciSoTCo Si Tag iroh\a.g km tsozv zvoKuiag UTToBzTiig rretztKo/uzvce, o-v/uqwov iv <ra/ua xiirct' 
/naval. With regard to style, Dionysius gives Thucydides the just praise of energy 
and brevity, but censures him on many occasions, not without reason, for harsh and 
obscure expression, deficient in smoothness and easie* 



iyt j HISTORICAL WRITING L LECT. XXXYL 

soon lice the reader, if he goes on recording, in strict chronological 
order, a multitude of separate transactions, connected by nothing else, 
but their happening at the same time. 

Though the history of Herodotus be of greater compass than that of 
Thucydides, and comprehend a much greater variety of dissimilar parts, 
he has been more fortunate in joining them together ; and digesting them 
into order. Hence he is a more pleasing writer, and gives a stronger 
impression of his subject ; though, in judgment and accuracy, much in- 
ferior to Thucydides. With digressions, and episodes he abounds ; but 
when these have any connexion with the main subject, and are inserted 
professedly as episodes, the unity of the whole is less violated by them, 
than by a broken and scattered narration of the principal story. Among 
the moderns, the President Thuanushas, by attempting to make the his- 
tory of his own times too comprehensive, fallen into the same error, of 
loading the reader with a great variety of unconnected facts, going on 
together in different parts of the world: an historian otherwise of 
great probity, candour, and excellent understanding ; but through this 
want of unity, more tedious, and less interesting than he would other= 
wise have been. 



LECTURE XXXVI. 



HISTORICAL WRITING. 

After making some observations on the controversy which has been 
often carried on concerning the comparative merit of the ancients and 
the moderns, I entered, in the last lecture, on the consideration of his- 
torical writing. The general idea of history is, a record of truth for 
the instruction of mankind. Hence arise the primary qualities required 
in a good historian, impartiality, fidelitj^, gravity, and dignity. What I 
principally considered, was the unity which belongs to this sort of com- 
position ; the nature of which I have endeavoured to explain. 

I proceed nest to observe, that in order to fulfil the end of history, 
the author must study to trace to their springs the actions and events 
which he records. Two things are especially necessary for his doing 
this successfully ; a thorough acquaintance with human nature, and po- 
litical knowledge, or acquaintaince with government. The former is 
necessary to account for the conduct of individuals, and to give just 
views of their character ; the latter, to account for the revolutions of 
government, and the operation of political causes on public affairs. — 
Both must concur, in order to form a completely instructive historian. 

With regard to the latter article, political knowledge, the ancient wri- 
ters wanted some advantages which the moderns enjoy ; from whom, 
upon that account, we have a title to expect more accurate and precise 
information. The world, as I formerly hinted, was more shut up in an- 
cient times, than it is now ; there was then less communication among 
neighbouringstates,and by consequence, less knowledge of one another's 
nfiairg ; no intercourse by established posts, or by ambassadors resident 



LE-CT. XXXVI. j HISTORICAL WRITING. 357 



at distant courts. The knowledge, and materials of the ancient histo- 
rians, were thereby more limited and circumscribed ; and it is to be ob- 
served too, that they wrote for their own countrymen only ; they had 
no idea of writing for the instruction of foreigners, whom they despised, 
or of the world in general ; and hence, they are less attentive to convey 
all that knowledge with regard to domestic policy, which we, in distant 
times, would desire to have learned from them. Perhaps also, though 
in ancient ages men were abundantly animated with the love of liberty, 
yet the full extent of the influence of government, and of political 
causes, was not then so thoroughly scrutinized, as it has been in modern 
times; when a long experience of all the different modes of govern- 
ment, has rendered men more enlightened and intelligent, with respect 
to public affairs. 

To these reasons it is owing, that though the ancient historians set be- 
fore us the particular facts which they relate, in a very distinct and 
beautiful manner, yet sometimes they do not give us a clear view of all 
the political causes, which affected the situation of affairs of which they 
treat. From the Greek historians, we are able to form but an imper- 
fect notion of the strength, the wealth, and the revenues of the differ- 
ent Grecian states ; of several of those revolutions that happened in 
their government ; or of their separate connexions and interfering inter- 
ests. In writing the history of the Romans, Livy had surely the most 
ample field for displaying political knowledge concerning the rise of their 
greatness, and the advantages or defects of their government. Yet the 
instruction in these important articles, which he affords, is not consider- 
able. An elegant writer he is, and a beautiful relator of facts, if ever 
there was one ; but by no means distinguished for profoundness of pene- 
tration. Sallust, when writing the history of a conspiracy against the 
government, which ought to have been altogether a political history, 
has evidently attended more to the elegance of narration, and the paint- 
ing of characters, than to the unfolding of secret causes and springs, 
Instead of that complete information, which we would naturally have 
expected from him of the state of parties in Rome, and of that particu- 
lar conjuncture of affairs, which enabled so desperate a profligate as 
Catiline to become so formidable to government, he has given us little 
more than a general declamatory account of the luxury and corruption 
of manners in that age, compared with the simplicity of former times. 

I by no means, however, mean to censure all the ancient historians 
as defective in political information. No historians can be more instruc- 
tive than Thucydides, Polybius, and Tacitus. Thucydides is grave, in- 
telligent, and judicious : always attentive to give very exact informa- 
tion concerning every operation which he relates ; and to show the ad- 
vantages or disadvantages of every plan that was proposed, and every mea- 
sure that was pursued. Polybius excels in comprehensive political 
views, in penetration into great systems, and in his profound and dis- 
tinct knowledge of all military affairs. Tacitus is eminent for his know- 
ledge of the human heart ; is sentimental and refined in a high degree ; 
conveys much instruction with respect to political matters, but more 
with respect to human nature. 

But when we demand from the historian profound and instructive 
views of his subject, it is not meant that he should be frequently inter- 
rupting the course of his history, with his own reflections and specula- 
tions. He should give us all the information that is necessary for our 



358 HISTORICAL WRITING. [LECT. XXXVX 

fully understanding the affairs which he records. He should make us 
acquainted with the political constitution, the force, the revenues, the 
internal state of the country of which he writes; and with its interests 
and connexions in respect of neighbouring countries. He should place 
us, as on an elevated station, whence we may have an extensive pros- 
pect of all the causes that co-operate in bringing forward the events 
which are related. But having put into our hands all the proper mate- 
rials for judgment, he should not be too prodigal of his own opinions and 
reasonings. When an historian is much given to dissertation, and is 
ready to philosophize, and speculate on all that he records, a suspicion 
naturally arises, that he will be in hazard of adapting his narrative of 
facts to favour some system which he has formed to himself. It is rather 
by fair and judicious narration that history should instruct us, than by 
delivering instruction in an avowed and direct manner. On some occa- 
sions, when doubtful points require to be scrutinized, or when some 
great event is in agitation, concerning the causes or circumstances of 
which mankind have been much divided, the narrative may be allowed 
to stand still for a little ; the historian may appear, and may with pro- 
priety enter into some weighty discussion. But he must take care not 
to cloy his readers with such discussions, by repeating them too often. 

When observations are to be made concerning human nature in gene- 
ral, or the peculiarities of certain characters, if the historian can art- 
fully incorporate such observations with his narrative, they will have 
a better effect than when they are delivered as formal detached reflec- 
tions. For instance : in the life of Agricola, Tacitus, speaking of Do- 
mitian's treatment of Agricola, makes this observation : 'Proprium hu- 
mani ingenii est, odisse quern lasseris."* The observation is just and 
well applied ; but the form, in which it stands, is abstract and philo- 
sophical. A thought of the same kind has a finer effect elsewhere in 
the same historian, when speaking of the jealousies which Germanicus 
knew to be entertained against him by Livia and Tiberius : " Anxius," 
says he, " occultis in se patrui aviaeque odiis, quorum causae acriores 
quia iniquae."t Here a profound moral observation is made ; but it is 
made without the appearance of making it in form ; it is introduced as 
a part of the narration, in assigning a reason for the anxiety of Germani- 
cus. We have another instance of the same kind, in the account which 
he gives of a mutiny raised against Rufus, who was a " Praefectus Cas- 
torum," on account of the severe labour which he imposed on the sol- 
diers. " Quippe Rufus, diu manipularis, dein centurio, mox castris 
praefectu?, antiquam duramque militiam revocabat, vetus operis et la- 
boris, et eo immitior quia toieraverat."| There was room for turning 
this into a general observation, that they who had been educated and 
hardened in toils, are commonly found to be the most severe in requir- 
ing the like toils from others. But the manner in which Tacitus intro- 
duces this sentiment as a stroke in the character of Rufus, gives it much 
more life and spirit. This historian has a particular talent of intermix- 

• + tl It belongs to human nature to hate the man whom you have injured. " 

f a Uneasy in his mind, on account of the concealed hatred entertained against 

him by his uncle and grandmother, which was the more bitter because the cause of 

it was unjust." 

% " For Rufus, who had long been a common soldier, afterward a centurion, and 

at length a general officer, restored the severe military discipline of ancient times. 

Grown old amidst toils and labours, he was the more rigid in imposing them, because 

he bad been accustomed to bear them." 



LECT. XXXVI. j HISTORICAL WAITING. g^g 

irig after this manner, with the course of his narrative, many striking 
sentiments and useful observations. 

Let us next proceed to consider the proper qualities of historical 
narration. It is obvious, that on the manner of narration, much must 
depend, as the first notion of history is the recital of past facts ; and 
how much one mode of recital may be preferable to another, we shall 
soon be convinced, by thinking of the different effects, which the same 
story, when told by two different persons, is found to produce. 

The first virtue of historical narration, is clearness, order, and due 
connexion. To attain this, the historian must be completely master of 
his subject ; he must see the whole as at one view ; and comprehend the 
chain and dependence of all its parts, that he may introduce every thing 
in its proper place ; that he may lead us smoothly along the track of 
affairs which are recorded, and may always give us the satisfaction of 
seeing' how one event arises out of another. Without this, there can 
be neither pleasure nor instruction, in reading history. Much for this 
end will depend on the observance of that unity in the general plan and 
conduct, which, in the preceding lecture, I recommended. Much too will 
depend on (he proper management of transitions, which forms one of the 
chief ornaments of this kind of writing, and is one of the most difficult 
in execution. Nothing tries an historian's abilities more, than so to lay his 
train beforehand, as to make us pass naturally and agreeably from one 
part of his subject to another ; to employ no clumsy and awkward junc- 
tures ; and to contrive ways and means of forming some union among 
transactions, which seem to be ?nost widely separated from one another. 

In the next place, as history is a very dignified species of composition, 
gravity must always be maintained in the narration. There must be no 
meanness nor vulgarity in the style ; no quaint nor colloquial phrases ; 
no affectation of pertness, or of wit. The smart, or the sneering man- 
ner of telling a story, is inconsistent with the historical character. I do 
not say, that an historian is never to let himself down. He may some- 
times do it with propriety, in order to diversify the strain of his narra- 
tion, which, if it be perfectly uniform, is apt to become tiresome. But 
he should be careful never to descend too far ; and, on occasions where 
a light or ludicrous anecdote is proper to be recorded, it is generally 
better to throw it into a note, than to hazard becoming too familiar, by 
introducing it into the body of the work. 

But an historian may profess these qualities of being perspicuous, 
distinct, and grave, and may notwithstanding be a dull writer ; in which 
case, we shall reap little benefit from his labours. We shall read him 
without pleasure; or, most probably, we shall soon give over reading 
him at all. He must therefore study to render his narration interesting ; 
which is the quality that chiefly distinguishes a writer of genius and 
eloquence. 

Two things are especially conducive to this; the first is, a just medium 
in the conduct of narration, between a rapid or crowded recital of facts, 
and a prolix detail. The former embarrasses, and the latter tires us. 
An historian that would interest us,'raust know when to be concise, and 
where he ought to enlarge ; passing concisely over slight and unimpor- 
tant events, but dwelling on such as are striking and considerable in their 
nature, or pregnant with consequences ; preparing beforehand our at- 
tention to them, and bringing them forth into the most full and conspicuous 
light. The next thing he must attend to is a proper selection of the 



360 HISTORICAL WRITING. jLECT. XXXVf 

circumstances belonging to those events which he chooses to relate fully. 
General facts make a slight impression on the mind. It is by means of 
circumstances and particulars properly chosen, that a narration becomes 
interesting and affecting to the reader. These give life, body, and co- 
louring to the recital of facts, and enable us to behold them as present, 
and passing before our eyes. It is this employment of circumstances, 
in narration, that is properly termed historical painting. 

In all these virtues of narration, particularly in this last, of picturesque 
descriptive narration, several of the ancient historians eminently excel. 
Hence, the pleasure that is found in reading Herodotus, Thucydides, 
Xenophon, Livy, Sallust, and Tacitus. They are all conspicuous for the 
art of narration. Herodotus is, at all times, an agreeable writer, and 
relates every thing with that naivete and simplicity of manner, which 
never fails to interest the reader. Though the manner of Thucydides 
be more dry and harsh, yet, on great occasions, as when he is giving an 
account of the plague of Athens, the siege of Platasa, the seditions in 
Corcyra, the defeat of the Athenians in Sicily, he displays a very strong 
and masterly power of description. Xenophon's Cyropaedia, and his 
Anabasis, or Retreat of the Ten Thousand, are extremely beautiful. 
The circumstances are fineiy selected, and the narration is easy and en- 
gaging ; but his Hellenics, or Continuation of the history of Thucydides, 
is a much inferior work. Sallust's Art of Historical Painting in his Cati- 
linarian, but more especially in his Jugurthine War, is well known ; 
though his style is liable to censure as too studied and affected. 

Livy is more unexceptionable in his manner : and is excelled by no 
historian whatever in the art of narration ; several remarkable ex- 
amples might be given from him. His account, for instance, of the 
famous defeat of the Roman army by the Samnites, at the Furcas Can- 
dinse, in the beginning of the ninth book, affords one of the most beau- 
tiful exemplifications of historical painting, that is any where to be met 
with. We have first, an exact description of the narrow pass between 
two mountains, into which the enemy had decoyed the Romans. When 
they find themselves caught, and no hope of escape left, we are made 
to see, first, their astonishment, next their indignation, and then, their 
dejection, painted in the most lively manner, by such circumstances and 
actions as were natural to persons in their situation. The restless and 
unquiet manner in which they pass the night ; the consultations of the 
Samnites; the various measures proposed to be taken ; the messages 
between the two armies, all heighten the scene. At length, in the 
morning, the consuls return to the camp, and inform them they could 
receive no other terms but that of surrendering their arms, and pass- 
ing under the yoke, which was considered as the last mark of ignominy 
for a conquered army. Part of what then follows, I shall give in the 
author's own word?. " Redintegravit luctum in castris consulum ad- 
ventus ; ut vix ab iis abstinerent manus, quorum temeritate in eum 
locum deducti essent. Alii alios intueri, contemplari arma mox tradenda, 
et inermes futuras dextras ; proponere sibimet ipsi ante oculos, jugum 
hostile, et ludibria victoris, et vultus superbos, et per armatos-in- 
ermium iter. Inde faedi agminis miserabilem viam ; per sociorum ur- 
bes reditum in patriam ac parentes quo ssepe ipsi triumphantes venissent. 
Se solos sine vulnere, sine ferro, sine acie victos ; sibi non stringere 
licuisse gladios, non manum cum hoste conserere ; sibi nequicquam ar- 
ifia, nequicquam vires, nequicquam animos datos. Hsec frementibus 



LECT. XXXVl] HISTORICAL WRITING S8I 

hora fatalis ignominiae advenit. Jamprimum cum singulis vestimentis, 
inermes extra vallum abire jussi. Turn a consulibus abire lictores jussi, 
paludamentaque detracta. Tantam hoc inter ipsos, qui paulo ante eos 
dedendos, lacerandosque censuerant, miseratkmem fecit, ut suae quisque 
conditionis oblitus, ab ilia deformatione tantae majestatis, velut ab nefand© 
spectaculo, averteret oculos. Primi consules, prope seminudi, sub 
jugum missi," &c* The rest of the story, which it would be too long 
to insert, is carried on with the same beauty, and full of picturesque 
circumstances.! 

Tacitus is another author eminent for historical painting, though in 
a manner altogether different from that of Livy. Livy's descriptions 
are more full, more plain, and natural j those of Tacitus consist in a 
few bold strokes. He selects one or two remarkable circumstances, and 
sets them before us in a strong, and, generally, in a new and uncommon 
light. Such is the following picture of the situation of Rome, and of 
the emperor Galba, when Otho was advancing against him : " Agebatur 
buc illuc Galba, vario turbas fluctuantis impulsu, completis undiqueba- 
silicis et templis lugubri prospectn. Neque populi aut plebis ulla 
vox ; sed attoniti vultus, el converse ad omnia aures. Non tumultus* 

* (i The arrival of the consols in the cainp, wrought up their passions to such a de- 
gree, that they could scarcely abstain from laying violent hands on them, as by their 
rashness they had been brought into this situation. They began to look on one an* 
other j to cast a melancholy eye on their arms, which were now to be surrendered, 
and on their right hands, which were to become defenceless. The yoke under which 
they were to pass ; the scoffs of the conquerors : and their haughty looks, when dis- 
armed and stripped, they should be led through the hostile lines : all rose before their 
eyes. They then looked forward to the sad journey which awaited them, when 
they were to pass as a vanquished and disgraced army through the territories of their 
allies, by whom they had often been beheld returning in triumph to their families 
and native land. They alone, they muttered to one another, without an engagement, 
without a single blow, had been conquered. To their hard fate it fell, never to 
have had it in their power to draw a sword, or to look an enemy in the face ; to 
them only, arms, strength, and courage, had been given in vain. While they were 
thus giving vent to their indignation, the fatal moment of their ignominy arrived* 
First, they were all commanded to come forth from the camp, without armour, and 
in a single garment. Next, orders are given, that, the consuls should be left 
without their lictors, and that they should be stripped of their robes. Such com- 
miseration did this affront excite among them, who, but a little before, had been for 
delivering up those very consuls to the enemy, and for putting them to death, that 
every one forgot his own condition, and turned his eyes aside from this infamous 
disgrace, suffered by the consular dignity, as from a spectacle which was too detest- 
able to be beheld. The consuls, almost half naked, were first made to pass unde'r 
the yoke," &c. 

t The description which Cassar gives of the consternation occasioned in his camp, 
by the accounts which were spread among his troops, of the ferocity, the size, and 
the courage of the Germans, affords an instance of historical painting, executed in a 
simple manner; and, at the same time, exhibiting a natural and lively scene. " Dum 
paucosdiesad Vesontionem moratur, ex percunctatione nostrorum,voscibusque Gaf- 
lorum ac mercatorum, qui ingenti magnitudine corporum Germanos, incredibili vir- 
tute, atque exercitatione in armis esse preedicabant ; saepe numero sese cum iis con- 
gressos, ne vultum quidem atque aciem oculorura ferre potuisse > tantus subito terror 
omnem exercitum occupavit, ut non mediocriter omnium mentes animosque pertur- 
baret. Hie primum ortus est a tribur.is miiitum, ac praefectis, reliquisque qui ex urbe, 
amicitia? causa, Caesarem secuti, suum periculum miserabantur, quod non magnum 
in. re militari irsum habebant quorum alius, alia causa illata quam sibi ad proficiscen- 
dum necessariam esse diceret, petebat ut ejus voluntate discedere liceret. Nonnulli 
pudore adducti, ut timoris suspicionem vitarent ; remanebant. Hi neque vultum fin* 
gere. neque interdum lacrymas tenere poterant. Abditi in tabernaculis aut suum 
fatum querebantur, aut cum familiaribus suis, commune periculum miserabantur. 
Vulgo, totis castris testamenta obsignabantur." De Bell. Gall, h I. 

Z z 



302 HISTORICAL WRITING, ' [LECT. XXXVT 

non quies ; sed quale magni metus, et magnse irae, silentium est."* No 
image, in any poet, is more strong and expressive than this last stroke of 
the description: " Non tumultus, non quies, sed quale," &.c. This is a 
conception of the sublime kind, and discovers high genius. Indeed, 
throughout all his work, Tacitus shows the hand of a master. As he is 
profound in reflection, so he is striking in description, and pathetic in 
sentiment. The philosopher, the poet, and the historian, all meet in 
him. Though the period of which he writes may be reckoned unfor- 
tunate for an historian, he has made it afford us many interesting exhi- 
bitions of human nature. The relations which he gives of the deaths of 
several eminent personages, are as affecting as the deepest tragedies. 
He paints with a glowing pencil ; and possesses, beyond all writers, the 
talent of painting, not to the imagination merely, but to the heart. With 
many of the most distinguished beauties, he is, at the same time, not a 
perfect model for history ; and such as have formed themselves upon 
him, have seldom been successful. He is to be admired, rather than 
imitated. In bis reflections, he is too refined; in his style, too concise, 
sometimes quaint and affected, often abrupt and obscure. History seems 
to require a more natural, flowing, and popular manner. 

The ancients employed one embellishment of history which the mo- 
derns have laid aside, I mean orations, which on weighty occasions, they 
put into the mouths of some of their chief personages. By means of these, 
they diversified their history ; they conveyed both moral and political 
instruction ; and, by the opposite*arguments which were employed, they 
gave us a view of the sentiments of different parties. Thucydides was 
the first who introduced this method. ' The orations with which his 
history abounds, and those too of some other Greek and Latin historians, 
are among the most valuable remains which we have of ancient elo- 
quence. How beautiful soever they are, it may be much questioned, I 
think, whether they find a proper place in history. I am rather inclined 
to think, that they are unsuitable to it. For they form a mixture which 
is unnatural in history, of fiction with truth. We know that these ora- 
tions are entirely of the author's own composition, and that he has intro- 
duced some celebrated persons haranguing in a public place, purely that 
he might have an opportunity of showing his own eloquence, or deli- 
vering his own sentiments, under the name of that person. This is a 
sort of poetical liberty which does not suit the gravity of history, through- 
out which, an air of the strictest truth should always reign. Orations may 
be an embellishment to history ; such might also poetical compositions 
be, introduced under the name of some of the personages mentioned in 
the narration, who were known to have possessed poetical talents. But 
neither the one nor the other, finds a proper place in history. Instead 
of inserting formal orations, the method adopted by later writers, seems 
better and more natural; that of the historian, on some great occasion, 
delivering, in his own person, the sentiments and reasonings of the op- 
posite parties, or the substance of what was understood to be spoken in 
some public assembly ; which he may do without the liberty of fiction. 

The drawing of characters is one of the most splendid, and at the 

ft M Galba was driven to and fro by the tide of the multitude, shoving him from 
place to place. The temples and the public buildings were filled with crowds of a 
dismal appearance. No clamours were heard, either from the citizens, or from the 
rabble. Their countenances were filled with consternation : their ears were em- 
ployed in listening with anxiety. It was not a tumult ; it was not quietness : it 
was the sitemre of terror, and cf wrath*" 



£ECT. XXXVI] HISTORICAL WRTTINa ,36'3 

same time, one of the most difficult ornaments of historical composition. 
For characters are generally considered, as professed exhibitions of fine 
writing ; and an historian, who seeks to shine in them, is frequently in 
danger of carrying refinement to excess, from a desire of appearing very 
profound and penetrating. He brings together so many contrasts, and 
subtile oppositions of qualities, that we are rather dazzled with sparkling 
expressions, than entertained with any clear conception of a human cha- 
racter. A writer who would characterize in an instructive and masterly 
manner, should be simple in his style, and should avoid all quaintness 
and affectation ; at the same time, not contenting himself with giving us 
general outlines only, but descending into those peculiarities which mark 
a character, in its most strong and distinctive features. The Greek his- 
torians sometimes give eulogiums, but rarely draw full and professed 
characters. The two ancient authors who have laboured this part of 
historical composition most, are Sallust and Tacitus. 

As history is a species of writing designed for the instruction of man- 
kind, sound morality should always reign in it. Both in describing cha- 
racters, and in relating transactions, the author should always show him- 
self to be on the side of virtue. To deliver moral instructions in a 
formal manner, falls not within his province ; but both as a good man, 
and as a good writer, we expect that he should discover sentiments of res- 
pect for virtue, and an indignation at flagrant vice. To appear neutral 
and indifferent with respect to good and bad characters, and to affect a 
crafty and political, rather than a moral turn of thought,will, besides other 
bad effects, derogate greatly from the weight of historical composition, 
and will render the strain of it much more cold and uninteresting. We are 
always most interested in the transactions which are going on, when our 
sympathy is awakened by the story, and when we become engaged in 
the fate of the actors. But this effect can never be produced by a wri- 
ter, who is deficient in sensibility and moral feeling. 

As the observations which I have hitherto made, have mostly respected 
the ancient historians, it may naturally be expected that I should also take 
some notice of the moderns who have excelled in this kind of writing. 

The country in Europe, where the historical genius has, in later ages, 
shone forth with most lustre, beyond doubt, is Italy. The national cha- 
racter of the Italians seems favourable to it. They were always distin- 
guished as an acute, penetrating, reflecting people, remarkable for politi- 
cal sagacity and wisdom, and who early addicted themselves to the arts of 
writing. Accordingly, soon after the restoration of letters, Machiavel, 
Guicciardin, Davila, Bentivoglio, Father Paul,became highly conspicuous 
for historical merit. They all appear to have conceived very just ideas 
of history ; and are agreeable, instructive, and interesting writers. In 
their manner of narration, they are much formed upon the ancients ; 
some of them, as Bentivoglio and Guicciardin, have, in imitation of 
them, introduced orations into their history. In the profoundness and 
distinctness of their political views, they may, perhaps, be esteemed to 
have surpassed the ancients. Critics have, at the same time, observed 
some imperfections in each of them. Machiavel, in his history of 
Florence, is not altogether so interesting as one would expect an au- 
thor of his abilities to be ; either through his own defect, or through 
some unhappiness in his subject, which led him into a very minute 
detail of the intrigues of one city. Guicciardin, at all times sensible 
and profound, is taxed for dwelling so long on the Tuscan affairs as to 
be sometimes tedious : a defect which is also .imputed occasionally 



3&| HISTORICAL WKlXISe. rLEC3t\ XXXVf 

to the judieious Father Paul. Bentivoglio, in his excellent history of the 
wars of Flanders, is accused of approaching to the florid and pompous 
manner : and Davila, though one of the most agreeable and entertain- 
ing relaters, has manifestly this defect of spreading a sort of uniformity 
over all his characters, by representing them as guided too regularly by 
political interest. But, although some such objections may be made to 
these authors, they deserve, upon the whole, to be placed in the first 
rank of modern historical writers. The wars of Flanders, written in 
Latin by Famianus Strada, is a book of some note ; but is not entitled to 
the same reputation as the works of the other historians 1 have named. 
Strada is too violently partial to the Spanish cause ; and too open a pa- 
negyrist of the Prince of Parma. He is florid, diffuse, and an affected 
imitator of the manner and style of Livy. 

Among the French, as there has been much good writing in many 
kinds, so also in the historical. That ingenious nation who have done 
so much honour to modern literature, possesses, in an eminent degree, 
the talent of narration. Many of their later historical writers are spirit- 
ed, lively, and agreeable ; and some of them not deficient in profound- 
ness and penetration. They have not, however, produced any such 
capital historians as the Italians, whom I mentioned above. 

Our island, till within these few years, was not eminent for its his- 
torical productions. Early, indeed, Scotland made some figure by means 
of the celebrated Buchanan. He is an elegant writer, classical in his 
Latinity, and agreeable both in narration and description. But one can- 
not but suspect him to be more attentive to elegance than to accuracy. 
Accustomed to form his political notions wholly upon the plans of an- 
cient governments, the feudal system seems never to have entered into 
his thoughts ; and as this was the basis of the Scottish constitution, his 
political views are of course inaccurate and imperfect. When he 
comes to the transactions of his own times, there is such a change in 
his manner of writing, and such an asperity in his style, that, on what 
side soever the truth lies with regard to those dubious and long contro- 
verted facts which make the subject of that part of his work, it is im- 
possible to clear him from being deeply tinctured w.Hh the spirit of 
party. 

Amongthe older English historians, the most considerable is Lord Cla- 
rendon. Though he writes as the professed apologist of one side, yet 
there appears more impartiality in his relation of facts, than might at 
first be expected. A great spirit of virtue and probity runs through 
his work. He maintains all the dignity of an historian. His sentences, 
indeed, are often too long, and his general manner is prolix ; but his 
style, on the whole, is manry ; and his merit, as an historian, is much 
beyond mediocrity. Bishop Burnet is lively and perspicuous ; but he 
has hardly any other historical merit His style is too careless and fa- 
miliar for history ; his characters are, indeed, marked with a bold and 
strong hand ; but they are generally light and satirical ; and he abounds 
so much in little stories concerning himself, that he resembles more a 
writer of memoirs than of history. During a long period, English his- 
torical authors were little more than dull compilers ; till of late the dis- 
tinguished names of Hume, Robertson, and Gibbon, have raised the 
British character, in this species of writing, to high reputation and dig- 
nity. 

I observed in the preceding lecture, that annals, memoirs, and lives, 
are the inferior kinds of historical composition. It will be proper, be- 



LECT. XXXVl.j &ISTORIOAL WRITING, gg* 

fore dismissing this subject, to make a few observations upon them, 
Annals are commonly understood to signify a collection of facts, digest- 
ed according to chronological order ; rather serving for the materials 
of history, than aspiring to the name of history themselves. All that 
is required, therefore, in a writer of such annals, is to be faithful, dis- 
tinct, and complete. 

Memoirs denote a sort of composition, in which an author does not 
pretend to give full information of all the facts respecting the period of 
which he writes, but only to relate what he himself had access to know, 
or what he was concerned in, or what illustrates the conduct of some 
person, or the circumstances of some transaction, which he chooses for 
his subject. From a writer of memoirs, therefore, is not expected the 
same profound research, or enlarged information, as from a writer of 
history. He is not subject to the same laws of unvarying dignity and 
gravity. He may talk freely of himself; he may descend into the most 
familiar anecdotes. What is chiefly required of him is, that he be 
sprightly and interesting ; and especially, that he inform us of things 
that are useful and curious ; that he Convey to us some sort of know- 
ledge worth the acquiring. This is a species of writing very bewitch- 
ing to such as love to write concerning themselves, and conceive every 
transaction, in which they had a share, to be of singular importance. 
There is no wonder, therefore, that a nation so sprightly as the French, 
should, for two centuries past, have been pouring forth a whole flood 
of memoirs ; the greatest part of which are little more than agreeable 
trifles. 

Some, however, must be excepted from this general character : two 
in particular ; the memoirs of the Cardinal de Retz, and those of the 
Duke of Sully. From Retz's Memoirs, besides the pleasure of agree- 
able and lively narration, we may derive also much instruction, and 
much knowledge of human nature. Though his politics be often too 
fine spun, yet the memoirs of a professed factious leader, such as 
the Cardinal was, wherein he draws both his own character, and that 
of several great personages, of his time, so fully, cannot be read by any 
person of good sense without benefit. The Memoirs of the Duke of 
Sully, in the state in which they are now given to the public, have great 
merit, and deserve to be mentioned with particular praise. No memoirs 
approach more nearly to the usefulness and the dignity of a full legiti- 
mate history. They have this peculiar advantage, of giving us a beau- 
tiful display of two of the most illustrious characters which history pre- 
sents ; Sully himself, one of the ablest and most incorrupt ministers, and 
Henry IV. one of the greatest and most amiable princes of modern times. 
I know few books more full of virtue, and of good sense, than Sully's 
Memoirs ; few, therefore, more proper to form both the heads and the 
hearts of such as are designed for publicbusiness, and action in the world. 

Biography, or the writing of lives, is a very useful kind of compo- 
sition ; less formal and stately than history : but to the bulk of readers, 
perhaps, no less instructive, as it affords them the opportunity of seeing 
the characters and tempers, the virtues and failings of eminent men 
fully displayed ; and admits them into a more thorough and intimate ac- 
quaintance with such persons, than history generally allows. For a 
writer of lives may descend, with propriety, to minute circumstances, 
and familiar incidents. It is expected of him. that he is to give the pri- 
vate, as well as the public life, of the person whose actions he records ; 
nay, it is from private life, from familiar, domestic, and seemingly tri- 



366 PHILOSOPHICAL WRITING. jXECT. XXXVIt, 

vial occurrences, that we often receive most light into the real character, 
In this species of writing, Plutarch has no small merit ; and to him we 
stand indebted for much of the knowledge that we possess, concerning 
several of the most eminent personages of antiquity. His matter is, 
indeed, better than his manner ; as he cannot lay claim to any peculiar 
beauty or elegance. His judgment too, and his accuracy, have some- 
times been taxed ; but whatever defects of this kind he may be liable to, 
his lives of eminent men will always be considered as a valuable trea- 
sure of instruction. He is remarkable for being one of the most humane 
writers of all antiquity ; less dazzled than many of them are, with the 
exploits of valour and ambition ; and fond of displaying his great men 
to us, in the more gentle lights of retirement and private life. 

1 cannot conclude the subject of history, without taking notice of a 
very great improvement which has, of late years, begun to be introdu- 
ced into historical composition ; 1 mean, a more particular attention than 
was formerly given to laws, customs, commerce, religion, literature, 
and every other thing that tends to show the spirit and genius of nations. 
It is now understood to be the business of an able historian to exhibit 
manners, as well as facts and events ; and assuredly, whatever displays 
the state and life of mankind, in different periods, and illustrates the 
progress of the human mind, is more useful and interesting than the de- 
tail of sieges and battles. The person, to whom we are most indebted 
for the introduction of this improvement into history, is the celebrated 
M. Voltaire, whose genius has shone with such surprising lustre, in so 
many different parts of literature. His age of Louis XIV. was one of 
the first great productions in this taste ; and soon drew throughout all 
Europe, that general attention, and received that high approbation, which 
so ingenious and eloquent a production merited. His essay on fhe ge- 
neral history of Europe, since the days of Charlemagne, is not to be 
considered either as a history, or the proper plan of an historical work ; 
but only as a series of observations on the chief events that have hap- 
pened throughout several centuries, and on the changes that succes- 
sively took place in the spirit and manners of different nations. Though-, 
in some dates and facts, it may, perhaps, be inaccurate, and is tinged 
with those particularities which unhappily distinguish Voltaire's manner 
of thinking on religious subjects, yet it contains so many enlarged and 
instructive views as justly to merit the attention of all who either read 
or write the history of those ages. 



LECTURE XXXVII. 



PHILOSOPHICAL WRITING— DIALOGUE— EPISTOLARY WRITING- 
FICTITIOUS HISTORY. 

As history is both a very dignified species of composition, and, by 
the regular form which it assumes, falls directly under the laws of criti- 
cism, I discoursed of it fully in the two preceding lectures. The re- 
maining species of composition, in prose, afford less room for critical 
observation. 



LkCT. ^XXVII.] PHILOSOPHICAL WRITING. 3^7 

Philosophical writing, for instance, will not lead us into any long 
discussion. As the professed object of philosophy is to convey instruc- 
tion, and as they who study it are supposed to do so for instruction, not 
for entertainment, the style, the form and dress of such writings, are 
less material objects. They are objects, however, that must not be 
wholly neglected. He who attempts to instruct mankind, without study- 
ing, at the same time, to engage their attention, and to interest them in 
his subject by his manner of exhibiting it, is not likely to prove success- 
ful. The same truths and reasonings delivered in a dry and cold man- 
ner, or with a proper measure of elegance and beauty, will make very 
different impressions on the minds of men. 

It is manifest, that every philosophical writer must study the utmost 
perspicuity; and, by reflecting on what was formerly delivered on the 
subject of perspicuity, with respect both to single words, and the con- 
struction of sentences, we may be convinced that this is a study which 
demands considerable attention to the rules of style and good writing. 
Beyond mere perspicuity, strict accuracy and precision are required in 
a philosophical writer. He must employ no words of uncertain mean- 
ing, no loose or indeterminate expressions; and should avoid using words 
which are seemingly synonymous, without carefully attending to the va- 
riation which they make upon the idea. 

To be clear and then precise, is one requisite which we have a title 
to demand from every philosophical writer. He may possess this qua- 
lity, and be, at the same time, a very dry writer. He should therefore 
study some degree of embellishment, in order to render his composition 
pleasiug and graceful. One of the most agreeable, and one of the most 
useful embellishments which a philosopher can employ, consists in 
illustrations taken from historical facts, and the characters of men. 
All moral and political subjects naturally afford scope for these ; and 
wherever there is room for employing them, they seldom fail of pro- 
ducing a happy effect. They diversify the composition ; they relieve 
the mind from the fatigue of mere reasoning, and at the same time raise 
more full conviction than any reasonings produce : for they take phi- 
losophy out of the abstract, and give weight to speculation, by showing 
its connexion with real life, and the actions of mankind. 

Philosophical writing admits, besides a polished, a neat and elegant 
style. It admits of metaphors, comparisons, and all the calm figures 
of speech, by which an author may convey his sense to the under- 
standing with clearness and force, at the same time that he entertains 
the imagination. He must take great care, however, that all his orna- 
ments be of the chastest kind, never partaking of the florid or the tumid ; 
which is so unpardonable in a professed philosopher, that it is much bet- 
ter for him to err on the side of naked simplicity, than on that of too 
much ornament. Some of the ancients, as Plato and Cicero, have left 
us philosophical treatises composed with much elegance and beauty. 
Seneca has been long and justly censured for the affectation that appears 
in his style. He is too fond of a certain brilliant and sparkling manner; 
of antithesis and quaint sentences. It cannot be denied, at the same 
time, that he often expresses himself with much liveliness and force ; 
though his style, upon the whole, is far from deserving imitation. In 
English, Mr. Locke's celebrated Treatise on Human Understanding, may 
be pointed out as a model, on the one hand, of the greatest clearness 
and distinctness of philosophical style, with very little approach to or 



3Q& DIALOGUE. [LECT. XXXVih 

nament ; Lord Shaftesbury's writings, on the other hand, exhibit philo- 
sophy dressed up with all the ornament which it can admit ; perhaps 
with more than is perfectly suited to it. 

Philosophical composition sometimes assumes a form under which it 
mingles more with works of taste, when carried on in the way of dia- 
logue and conversation. Under this form the ancients have given us 
some of their chief philosophical works ; and several of the moderns 
have endeavoured to imitate them. Dialogue writing may be executed 
in two ways, either as direct conversation, where none but the speakers 
appear, which is the method that Plato uses, or as the recital of a con- 
versation, where the author himself appears, and gives an account of 
what passed in discourse ; which is the method that Cicero generally 
follows. But though those different methods make some variation in 
the form, yet the nature of the compositions is at bottom the same in 
both, and subject to the same laws. 

A dialogue, in one or other of these forms, on some philosophical, 
moral, or critical subject, when it is well conducted, stands in a high 
rank among the works of taste ; but it is much more difficult in the exe- 
cution than is commonly imagined. For it requires more than merely 
the introduction of different persons speaktngin succession. It ought to 
be a natural and spirited representation of real conversation ; exhibit- 
ing the character and manners of the several speakers, and suiting to 
the character of each, that peculiarity of thought and expression which 
distinguishes him from another. A dialogue, thus conducted, gives the 
reader a very agreeable entertainment ; as by means of the debate go- 
ing on among the personages, he receives a fair and full view of both 
sides of the argument ; and is at the same time amused with polite con- 
versation, and with a display of consistentand well-supported characters. 
An author, therefore, who has genius for executing such a composition 
after this manner, has it in his power both to instruct and to please. 

But the greatest part of modern dialogue writers have no idea of any 
composition of this sort ; and bating the outward forms of conversa- 
tions, and that one speaks and another answers, it is quite the same, as 
if the author spoke in person throughout the whole. He sets up a Phi- 
lotheus, perhaps, and a Philatheos, or an A and a B; who, after mutual 
compliments, and after admiring the fineness of the morning or even- 
ing, and the beauty of the prospects around them, enter into conference 
concerning some great matter ; and all that we know farther of them 
is, that the one personates the author, a man of learning, no doubt, and 
of good principles ; and the other is a man of straw, set up to propose 
some trivial objections; over which the first gains a most entire triumph; 
and leaves his sceptical antogonist at the end much humbled, and 
generally, convinced of his error. This is a very frigid and insipid 
manner of writing ; the more so, as it is an attempt toward some- 
thing, which we see the author cannot support. It is the form, without 
the spirit of conversation. The dialogue serves no purpose, but to 
make awkward interruptions ; and we should with more patience hear 
the author continuing always to reason himself, and to remove the ob- 
jections that are made to his principles, than be troubled with the un- 
meaning appearance of two persons, whom we see to be in reality no 
more than one. 

Among the ancients, Plato is eminent for the beauty of his dialogues. 
The scenery, aad the circumstances of many of them, are beautifully 



LECT. XXXV1L] ^EPISTOLARY WRITING. 3^9 

painted. The characters of the sophists, with whom Socrates disputed, 
are well drawn : a variety of personages are exhibited to us ; we are 
introduced into a real conversation, often supported with much life and 
spirit, after the Socratic manner. For richness and beauty of imagina- 
tion, no philosophical writer, ancient or modern, is comparable to Plato. 
The only fault of his imagination is, such an excess of fertility as allows 
it sometimes to obscure his judgment. It frequently carries him into 
allegory, fiction, enthusiasm, and the airy regions of mystical theology. 
The philosopher is, at times, lost in the poet. But whether we be edi- 
fied with the matter or not, (and much edification he often affords) we 
are always entertained with the manner ; and left with a strong impres- 
sion of the sublimity of the author's genius. 

Cicero's dialogues, or those recitals of conversations, which he has 
introduced into several of his philosophical and critical works, are not 
so spirited, nor so characteristical, as those of Plato. Yet some, as that 
" De Oratore" especially, are agreeable and well supported. They 
show us conversation carried on among some of the principal persons of 
ancient Rome, with freedom, good breeding, and dignity. The author 
of the elegant dialogue, Ci De Causis Corruptae Eloquential," which is 
annexed sometimes to the works of Quintilian, and sometimes to those 
of Tacitus, has happily imitated, perhaps has excelled, Cicero, in this 
manner of writing. 

Lucian is a dialogue writer of much eminence ; though his subjects 
are seldom such as can entitle him to be ranked among philosophical 
authors. He has given the model of the light and humorous dialogue, 
and has carried it to great perfection. A character of levity, and at the 
same time of wit and penetration, distinguishes all his writings. His 
great object was, to expose the follies of superstition, and the pedantry 
of philosophy, which prevailed in his age ; and he could not have taken 
any more successful method for this end, than what he has employed 
in his dialogues, especially in those of the gods and of the dead, which 
are full of pleasantry and satire. In this invention of dialogues of the 
dead, he has been followed by several modern authors. Fontenelle, 
in particular, has given us dialogues of this sort, which are sprightly 
and agreeable ; but as for characters, whoever his personages be, they 
all become Frenchmen in his hands. Indeed, few things in composition 
are more difficult, than in the course of a moral dialogue, to exhibit 
characters properly distinguished ; as calm conversation furnishes none 
of those assistances for bringing characters into light, which the active 
scenes, and interesting situations of the drama afford. Hence, few au- 
thors are eminent for characteristical dialogue on grave subjects. One 
of the most remarkable in the English language, is a writer of the last 
age, Dr. Henry More, in his divine dialogues, relating to the foundation 
of natural religion. Though his style be now in some measure obsolete, 
and his speakers be marked with the academic stiffness of those times, 
yet the dialogue is animated by a variety of character, and a sprightli- 
ness of conversation, beyond what are commonly met with in writings 
of this kind. Bishop Berkeley's dialogues concerning the existence of 
matter, do not attempt any display of characters ; but furnish an instance 
of a very abstract subject, rendered clear and intelligible by means of 
conversation properly managed. 

I proceed next to make some observations on epistolary writing which 
possesses a kind of middle place between the serious and amusing spe- 

A a a 



370 irPiSTOIiARY WAITING. [LECT. XXXVIL 

cies of composition. Epistolary writing appears, at first view, to stretch 
into a very wide field. For there is no subject whatever, on which one 
may not convey his thoughts to the public in the form of a letter. Lord 
Shaftesbury, for instance, Mr. Harris, and several other writers, have 
chosen to give this form to philosophical treatises. But this is not suffi- 
cient to class such treatises under the head of epistolary composition. 
Though they hear, in the title page, a letter to a friend, after the first 
address, the friend disappears, and we see, that it is, in truth, the public 
with whom the author corresponds. Seneca's epistles are of this sort. 
There is no probability that they ever passed in correspondence, as 
real letters. They are no other than miscellaneous dissertations on 
moral subjects ; which the author, for his convenience, chose to put into 
the epistolary form. Even where one writes a real letter on some for- 
mal topic, as of moral or religious consolation to a person under distress, 
such as Sir William Temple has written to the countess of Essex on the 
death of her daughter, he is at liberty, on such occasions, to write wholly 
as a divine or as a philosopher, and to assume the style and manner of 
one, without reprehension. We consider the author not as writing a 
letter, but as composing a discourse, suited particularly to the circum- 
stances of some one person. 

Epistolary writing becomes a distinct species of composition, subject 
to the cognizance of criticism only, or chiefly, when it is of the easy 
and familiar kind ; when it is conversation carried on upon paper, be- 
tween two friends at a distance. Such an intercourse, when well con- 
ducted, may be rendered very agreeable to readers of taste. If the 
subject of the letters be important, they will be the more valuable. Even 
though there should be nothing very considerable in the subject, yet, 
if the spirit and turn of the correspondence be agreeable ; if they be 
written in a sprightly manner, and with native grace and ease, they may 
still be entertaining ; more especially if there be any thing to interest 
us, in the characters of those who write them. Hence the curiosity 
which the public has always discovered, concerning the letters of emi- 
nent persons. We expect in them to discover somewhat of their real 
character. It is childish indeed to expect, that in letters we are to 
find the whole heart of the author unveiled. Concealment and disguise 
take place, more or less, in all human intercourse. But still, as letters 
from one friend to another make the nearest approach to conversation, 
we may expect to see more of a character displayed in these than in 
other productions, which are studied for public view. We please our- 
selves with beholding the writer in a situation which allows him to be 
at his ease, and to give vent occasionally to the overflowings of his heart. 

Much, therefore, of the merit, and the agreeableness of epistolary 
writing, will depend on its introducing us into some acquaintance with 
the writer. There, if any where, we look for the man, not for the 
author. Its first and fundamental requisite is, to be natural and simple ; 
for a stiff and laboured manner is as bad in a letter, as it is in conversa- 
tion. This does not banish sprightliness and wit. These are graceful 
in letters, just as they are in conversation : when they flow easily, and 
without being studied ; when employed so as to season, not to cloy. One 
who, either in conversation or in letters, affects to shine and to sparkle 
always, will not please long. The style of letters should not be too 
highly polished. It ought to be neat and correct, but no more. All 
mcety about words, betrays study : and hence musical periods, and ap- 



' 



LECT. XXXVIL] EPISTOLARY WRITING. £71 

„ pearances of number and harmony in arrangement, should be carefully 
avoided in letters. The best letters are commonly such as the authors 
have written with most facility. What the heart or the imagination dic- 
tates, always flows readily; but where there is no subject to warm or in- 
terest these, constraint appears ; and hence, those letters of mere com- 
pliment, congratulation, or affected condolence, which have cost the 
authors most labour in composing, and which, for that reason, they per- 
haps consider as their master-pieces, never fail of being the most disa- 
greeable and insipid to the readers. 

It ought, at the same time, to be remembered, that the ease and sim- 
plicity which I have recommended in epistolary correspondence, are 
not to be understood as importing entire carelessness. In writing to the 
most intimate friend, a certain degree of attention, both to the subject 
and the style, is requisite and becoming. It is no more than what we 
owe both to ourselves, and to the friend with whom we correspond. A 
slovenly and negligent manner of writing, is a disobliging mark of want 
of respect. The liberty, besides, of writing letters with too careless 
a hand, is apt to betray persons into imprudence in what they write. 
The first requisite both in conversation and correspondence, is to attend 
to all the proper decorums which our own character, and that of others 
demand. An imprudent expression in conversation may be forgotten 
and pass away ; but when we take the pen into our hand, we must re- 
member, that " Litera scripta manet." 

Pliny's letters are one of the most celebrated collections which the 
ancients have given us, in the epistolary way. They are elegant and 
polite ; and exhibit a very pleasing and amiable view of the author. 
But, according to the vulgar phrase, they smell too much of the lamp. 
They are too elegant and fine ; and it is not easy to avoid thinking, that 
the author is casting an eye towards the public, when he is appearing to 
write only for his friends. Nothing indeed is more difficult than for an 
author who publishes his own letters, to divest himself altogether of 
attention to the opinion of the world in what he says ; by which means 
he becomes much less agreeable than a man of parts would be, if without 
any constraint of this sort he were writing to his intimate friend. 

Cicero's epistles, though not so showy as those of Pliny, are on several 
accounts, a far more valuable collection ; indeed, the most valuable col- 
lection of letters extant in any language. They are letters of real busi- 
ness, written to the greatest men of the age, composed with purity and 
elegance, but without the least affectation; and, what adds greatly to their 
merit, written without any intention of being published to the world. 
For it appears, that Cicero never kept copies of his own letters ; and we 
are wholly indebted to the care of his freed-man Tyro, for the large 
collection that was made after his death, of those which are now extant, 
amounting to near a thousand.* They contain the most authentic mate- 
rials of the history of that age : and are the last monuments which remain 
of Rome in its free state ; the greatest part of them being written during 
that important crisis, when the republic was on the point of ruin ; the 
most interesting situation, perhaps, whichis to be found in the affairs of 
mankind. To his intimate friends, especially to Atticus, Cicero lays open 

* See his letter to Atticus, which was written a year or two before his death, in 
which he tells him, in answer to some inquiries concerning his epistles, that he had 
no collection of them, and that Tvro had only about seventy of them. 

Ad, Att 16. 5. 



37£ EPISTOLARY WRJTijSG. JXECT. XXXVI! 

himself and his heart, with entire freedom. In the course of his corres- 
pondence with others, we are introduced into acquaintance with several 
of the principal personages of Rome ; and it is remarkable that most of 
Cicero's correspondents, as well as himself, are elegant and polite 
writers : which serves to heighten our idea of the taste and manners of 
that age. 

The most distinguished collection of letters in the English language, is 
that of Mr. Pope, Dean Swift, and their friends ; partly published in 
Mr. Pope's works, and parly in those of Dean Swift. This collection 
is, on the whole, an entertaining and agreeable one ; and contains much 
wit and ingenuity. It is not, however, altogether free from the fault 
which 1 imputed to Pliny's epistles, of too much study and refinement. 
In the variety of letters from different persons, contained in that collec- 
tion, we find many that are written with ease, and a beautiful simplicity. 
Those of Dr. Arbuthnot, in particular, always deserve that praise. 
Dean Swift's also are unaffected ; and as a proof of their being so, they 
exhibit his character fully, with all its defects ; though it were to be 
wished, for the honour of his memory, that his epistolary correspondence 
had not been drained to the dregs, by so many successive publications, 
as have been given to the world. Several of Lord Bolingbroke's and of 
Bishop Atterbury's letters, are masterly. The censure of writing letters 
in too artificial a manner, falls heaviest on Mr. Pope himself. There is 
visibly more study, and less of nature and the heart in his letters, than 
in those of some of his correspondents. He had formed himself on the 
manner of Voiture, and is too fond of writing like a wit. His letters to 
ladies are full of affectation. Even in writing to his friends, how forced 
an introduction is the following of a letter to Mr. Addison ; " I am more 
joyed at your return, than I should be at that of the sun, as much as I 
wish for him in this melancholy wet season ; but it is his fate too, like 
yours, to be displeasing to owls and obscene animals, who cannot bear 
his lustre." How stiff a compliment it is which he pays to Bishop Atter- 
bury ! " Though the noise and daily bustle for the public be now over, 
I dare say, you are still tendering its welfare ; as the sun in winter, when 
seeming to retire from the world, is preparing warmth and benedictions 
for a better season." This sentence might be tolerated in a harangue ; 
but is very unsuitable to the style of one friend corresponding with 
another. 

The gayety and vivacity of the French genius appear to much advantage 
in their letters, and have given birth to several agreeable publications. 
In the last age, Balzac and Voiture were the two most celebrated episto- 
lary writers. Balzac's reputation indeed soon declined, on account of 
his swelling periods and pompous style. But Voiture continued long a 
favourite author. His composition is extremely sparkling ; he shows a 
great deal of wit, and can trifle in the most entertaining manner. His 
only fault is, that he is too open and professed a wit to be thoroughly 
agreeable as a letter writer. The letters of Madame de Sevigne are now 
esteemed the most accomplished model of a familiar correspondence. 
They turn indeed very much upon trifles, the incidents of the day, and 
the news of the town, and they are overloaded with extravagant compli- 
ments, and expressions of fondness to her favourite daughter ; but withal 
they show such perpetual sprightliness, they contain such easy and varied 
narration, and so many strokes of the most lively and beautiful painting, 
perfectly free from any affectation, that they are justly entitled to high 



LECX. XXXVII.j FICTITIOUS HISTORY, 373 

praise. The letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montague are not unworthy 
of being named after those of Mad. de Sevigue. They have much of 
the French ease and vivacity ; and retain more the character of agree- 
able epistolary style, than perhaps any letters which have appeared in 
the English language. 

There remains to be treated of, another species of composition in - 
prose, which comprehends a very numerous, though in general, a very 
insignificant class of writings, known by the name of romances and 
novels. These may, at first view, seem too insignificant to deserve 
that any particular notice should be taken of them. But I cannot be of 
this opinion. Mr. Fletcher of Salton, in one of his tracts, quotes it as 
the saying of a wise man, that give him the making of all the ballads of 
a nation, he would allow any one that pleased to make their laws. The 
saying was founded on reflection and good sense, and applies to the sub- 
ject now before us. For any kind of writing, how trifling soever in ap- 
pearance, that obtains a general currency, and especially that early pre- 
occupies the imagination of the youth of both sexes, must demand par- 
ticular attention. Its influence is likely to be considerable, both on the 
morals and taste of a nation. 

In fact, fictitious histories might be employed for very useful purpo- 
ses. They furnish one of the best channels for conveying instruction, 
for painting human life and manners, for showing the errors into which 
we are betrayed by our passions, for rendering virtue amiable and vice 
odious. The effect of well-contrived stories, towards accomplishing 
these purposes, is stronger than any effect that can be produced by sim- 
ple and naked instruction ; and hence we find, that the wisest men in all 
ages, have more or less employed fables and fictions, as the vehicles of 
knowledge. These have ever been the basis of both epic and dramatic 
poetry. It is not, therefore, the nature of this sort of writing consider- 
ed in itself, but the faulty manner of its execution, that can expose it to 
any contempt. Lord Bacon takes notice of our taste for fictitious histo- 
ry, as a proof of the greatness and dignity of the human mind. He ob- 
serves very ingeniously, that the objects of this world, and the common 
train of affairs which we behold going on in it, do not fill the mind, nor 
give it entire satisfaction. We seek for something that shall expand the 
mind in a greater degree : we seek for more heroic and illustrious 
deeds, for more diversified and surprising events, for a more 
splendid order of things, a more regular and just distribution of rewards 
and punishments than what we find here ; because we meet not with 
these in true history, we have recourse to fictitious. We create worlds 
according to our fancy, in order to gratify our capacious desires : 
" Accommodando," says that great philosopher, " rerun) simulachra ad 
animi desideria, non submittendo animum rebus, quod ratio, et his- 
toria."* Let us then, since the subject wants neither dignity nor use, 
make a few observations on the rise and progress of fictitious history, 
and the different forms it has assumed in different countries. 

In all countries we find its origin very ancient. The genius of the 
eastern nations, in particular, was from the earliest times much turned 
towards invention, and the love of fiction. Their divinity, their philo- 
sophy, and their politics, were clothed in tables and parables. The 
Indians, the Persians, and Arabians, were all famous for their tales. 

* " Accommodating the appearances of things to the desires of the mind, not- 
bringing down the mind, as history and philosophy do, to the course of event?" 



,374 FICTITIOUS HISTORY, [LECT. XXXVNL 

The " Arabian Night's Entertainments" are the production of a roman- 
tic invention, but of a rich and amusing imagination ; exhibiting a singu- 
lar and curious display of manners and characters, and beautified with 
a very humane morality. Among the ancient Greeks, we hear of the 
Ionian and Milesian Tales ; but they have now perished, and, from any 
account that we have of them, appear to have been of the loose and 
wanton kind. Some fictitious histories yet remain, that were composed 
during the decline of the Roman Empire, by Apuleius, Achilles Tatius, 
and Heliodorus, bishop of Trica, in the fourth century ; but none of 
them are considerable enough to merit particular criticism. 

During the dark ages, this sort of writing assumed a new and very 
singular form, and for a long while made a great figure in the world. 
The martial spirit of those nations, among whom the feudal government 
prevailed ; the establishment of single combat, as an allowed method 
of deciding causes both of justice and honour ; the appointment of 
champions in the cause of women, who could not maintain their own 
rights by the sword ; together with the institution of military tourna- 
ments, in which different kingdoms vied with one another, gave rise, in 
those times, to that marvellous system of chivalry, which is one of the 
most singular appearances in the history of mankind. Upon this were 
founded those romances of knight-errantry, which carried an ideal 
chivalry to a still more extravagant height than it had risen in fact. 
There was displayed in them a new and very wonderful sort of world, 
hardly bearing any resemblance to the world in which we dwell. Not 
only knights setting forth to redress all manner of wrongs, but in every 
page, magicians, dragons, and giants, invulnerable men, winged horses, 
enchanted armour, and enchanted castles ; adventures absolutely incre- 
dible, yet suited to the gross ignorance of these ages, and to the legends, 
and superstitious notions concerning magic and necromancy, which then 
prevailed. This merit they had, of being writings of the highly moral 
and heroic kind. Their knights were patterns, not of courage merely, but 
of religion, generosity, courtesy, and fidelity ; and the heroines were no 
less distinguished for modesty, delicacy, and the utmost dignity of man- 
ners. 

These were the first compositions that received the name of roman- 
ces. The origin of this name is traced by Mr. Huet, the learned Bishop 
of Avranche, to the Provencal Troubacloures, a sort of story-tellers 
and bards in the county of Provence, where there subsisted some remains 
of literature and poetry. The language which prevailed in that coun- 
try was a mixture of Latin and Gallic, called the Roman or Romance 
language ; and their stories being written in that language, hence, it is 
£aid, the name of Romance, which we now apply to all fictitious com- 
position. 

The earliest of those romances is that which goes under the name of 
Turpin, the archbishop of Rheims, written in the 11th century. The 
subject is, the achievements of Charlemagne and his Peers, or Paladins, 
in driving the Saracens out of France and part of Spain ; the same sub- 
ject which Ariosto has taken for his celebrated poem of Orlando Furioso, 
which is truly a chivalry romance, as extravagant as any of the rest, 
but partly heroic, and partly comic, embellished with the highest graces 
of poetry. The Romance of Turpin was followed by Amadis de Gaul, 
and many more of the same stamp. The Crusades both furnished new 
matter, and increased the spirit for such writings ; the Christians against 






LECP. XXXVII.] FICTITIOUS HISTORY, 375 

the Saracens made the common groundwork of them ; and from the 1 1th 
to the 16th century, they continued to bewitch all Europe. In Spain, 
where the taste for this sort of writing had been most greedily caught, 
the ingenious Cervantes, in the beginning of the 16th century, con- 
tributed greatly to explode it ; and the abolition of tournaments, the 
prohibition of single combat, the disbelief of magic and enchantments, 
and the change in general of manners throughout all Europe, began to 
give a new turn to fictitious composition. 

Then appeared the Astraea of D'urfc, the Grand Cyrus, the Clelia 
and Cleopatra of Mad. Scuderi, the Arcadia of Sir Philip Sidney, and 
other grave and stately compositions in the same style. These may be 
considered as forming the second stage of romance writing. The hero- 
ism and the gallantry, the moral and virtuous turn of the chivalry ro- 
mance, was still preserved ; but the dragons, the necromancers, and 
the enchanted castles, were banished, and some small resemblance to 
human nature was introduced. Still, however, there was too much of 
the marvellous in them to please an age which now aspired to refinement. 
The characters were discerned to be strained ; the style to be swoln ; 
the adventures incredible ; the books themselves were voluminous and 
tedious. 

Hence, this sort of composition soon assumed a third form, and from 
magnificent heroic romance, dwindled down to the familiar novel. These 
novels, both in France and England, during the age of Lewis XIV. and 
King Charles II. were in general of a trifling nature, without the ap- 
pearance of moral tendency, or useful instruction. Since that time, 
however, somewhat better has been attempted, and a degree of reforma- 
tion introduced into the spirit of novel writing. Imitations of life and 
character have been made their principal object. Relations have been 
professed to be given of the behaviour of persons in particular interest- 
ing situations, such as may actually occur in life ; by means of which, 
what is laudable or defective in character and conduct, may be pointed 
out, and be placed in a useful light. Upon this plan, the French have 
produced some compositions of considerable merit. Gil Bias, by Le Sage, 
is a book full of good sense, and instructive knowledge of the world. 
The works of Maurivaux, especially his Marianne, discover great re- 
finement of thought, great penetration into human nature, and paint, 
with a very delicate pencil, some of the nicest shades and features in 
the distinction of characters. The Nouvelle Heloise of Rousseau is a 
production of a very singular kind ; in many of the events which are 
related, improbable and unnatural ; in some of the details tedious, and 
for some of the scenes w hich are described justly blameable ; but withal, 
for the power of eloquence, for tenderness of sentiment, for ardour 
of passion, entitled to rank among the highest productions of fictitious 
history. 

In this kind of writing we are, it must be confessed, in Great Britain, 
inferior to the French. We neither relate so agreeably nor draw cha- 
racters with so much delicacy ; yet we are not without some perform- 
ances which discover the strength of the British genius. No fiction, in 
any language, was ever better supported than the adventures of Robin- 
son Crusoe. While it is carried on with that appearance of truth and 
simplicity, which takes a strong hold of the imagination of all readers, 
it suggests, at the same time, very useful instruction ; by showing how 
much the native powers of man may be exerted for surmounting the 



37$ ORIGIN AND PROGRESS OF POETRY. [LECT. XXXVI II, 

difficulties of any external situation. Mr. Fielding's novels are highly 
distinguished for their humour ; a humour which, if not of the most re- 
fined and delicate kind, is original, and peculiar to himself. The cha- 
racters which he draws are lively and natural, and marked with the 
strokes of a bold pencil. The general scope of his stories is favourable 
to humanity and goodness of heart ; and in Tom Jones, his greatest 
work, the artful conduct of the fable, and the subserviency of all the 
incidents to the windiug up of the whole, deserve much praise. The 
most moral of all our novel writers, is Richardson, the author of Cla- 
rissa, a writer of excellent intentions, and of very considerable capacity 
and genius ; did he not possess the unfortunate talent of spinning out 
pieces of amusement into an immeasurable length. The trivial per- 
formances which daily appear in public under the title of Lives, Adven- 
tures, and Histories, by anonymous authors, if they be often innocent, 
yet are most commonly insipid ; and though in the general it ought to be 
admitted that characleristical novels, formed upon nature and upon life, 
without extravagance, and without licentiousness, might furnish an agree- 
able and useful entertainment to the mind ; yet according as these wri- 
tings have been, for the most part conducted, it must also be confess- 
ed that they oftener tend to dissipation and idleness, than to any good pur- 
pose. Let us now, therefore, make our retreat from theee regions of 
fiction. 



LECTURE XXXVIII. 



NATURE OF POETRY— ITS ORIGIN AND PROGRESS- 
VERSIFICATION. 

I have now finished my observations on the different kinds of wri- 
ting in prose. What remains is, to treat of poetical composition. Be- 
fore entering on the consideration of any of its particular kinds, I de- 
sign this lecture as an introduction to the subject of poetry in general .; 
wherein I shall treat of its nature, give an account of its rise and origin, 
and make some observations on versification, or poetical numbers. 

Our first inquiry must be, what is poetry ? and wherein does it dif- 
fer from prose ? The answer to this question is not so easy as might 
at first be imagined ; and critics have differed and disputed much, con- 
cerning the proper definition of poetry. Some have made its essence 
to consist in fiction, and support their opinion by the authority of Aris- 
totle and Plato. But this is certainly too limited a definition ; for though 
fiction may have a great share in many poetical compositions, yet many 
subjects of poetry may not be feigned ; as where the poet describes objects 
which actually exist, or pours forth the real sentiments of his own heart. 
Others have made the characteristic of poetry to lie in imitation. But 
this is altogether loose : for several other arts imitate as well as poetry ; 
and an imitation of human manners and characters, may be carried on in 
the humblest prose, no less than in the more lofty poetic strain. 

The most just and comprehensive definition which, I think, can be 



'LECT. XXXVIH] ORIGIN AND PROGRESS OF POETRY. 37; 

given of poetry, is, " That it is the language of passion, or of enliven- 
ed imagination, formed, most commonly, into regular numbers." The 
historian, the orator, the philosopher, address themselves, for the most 
part, primarily to the understanding : their direct aim is to inform, to 
persuade, or to instruct. But the primary aim of a poet is to please 
and to move ; and, therefore, it is to the imagination, and the passions, 
that he speaks. He may, and he ought to have it in his view, to in- 
struct, and to reform ; but it is indirectly, and by pleasing and moving, 
that he accomplishes this end. His mind is supposed to be animated by 
some interesting object which fires his imagination, or engages his pas* 
sions ; and which, of course, communicates to his style a peculiar ele- 
vation suited to his ideas ; very different from that mode of expression, 
which is natural to the mind in its calm, ordinary state. I have added 
to my definition, that this language ofpassion, or imagination, is formed, 
most commonly, into regular numbers ; because, though versification be, 
in general, the exterior distinction of poetry, yet there are someforms 
of verse so loose and familiar, as to be hardly distinguishable from prose; 
such as the verse of Terence's comedies ; and there is also a species of 
prose so measured in its cadence, and so much raised in its tone, as 
to approach very near poetical numbers ; such as the Telemachus of 
Fenelon ; and the English translation of Ossiam The truth is, verse 
and prose, on some occasions, run into one another, like light and shade. 
It is hardly possible to determine the exact limit where eloquence ends, 
and poetry begins ; nor is there any occasion for being very precise 
about the boundaries, as long as the nature of each is understood. These 
are the minutise of criticism, concerning which frivolous writers are al- 
ways disposed to squabble ; but which deserve not any particular dis- 
cussion. The truth and justness of the definition, which T have given 
of poetry, will appear more fully from the account which I am now 
to give of its origin ; and which will tend to throw light on much of what 
I am afterward to deliver, concerning its various kinds. 

The Greeks, ever fond of attributing to their own nation the inven- 
tion of all sciences and arts* have ascribed the origin of poetry to Or- 
pheus, Linus, and Musoeus. There were, perhaps, such persons as 
these, who were the first distinguished bards in the Grecian countries, 
But Ions; before such names were heard of, and among nations where 
they were never known, poetry existed. It is a great error to imagine, 
that poetry and music are arts whicli belong only to polished nations. 
They have their foundation in the nature of man, and belong to all na- 
tions, and to all ages ; though, like other arts founded in nature, they 
have been more cultivated, and from a concurrence of favourable cir- 
cumstances, carried to a greater perfection in some countries than in 
, others. In order to explore the rise of poetry, we must have recourse 
to the deserts and the wilds ; we must go back to the age of hunters and 
of shepherds ; to the highest antiquity ; and to the simplest form of 
manners among mankind. 

It has been often said, and the concurring voice of all antiquity affirms, 
that poetry is older than prose. But in what sense this seemingly 
strange paradox holds true, has not always been well understood. 
There never certainly, was any period of society* in which men con- 
versed together in poetical numbers. It was in very humble and scanty 
prose, as we may easily believe, that the first tribes carried on inter- 
course among themselves, relating to the wants and necessities of lifa 

B h b 



U1UGLN AND PROGRESS OF POETRY. [LECT. XXXVRf, 

But from the very beginning of society, there were occasions on which 
they met together for feasts, sacrifices, and public assemblies ; and on 
all such occasions, it is well known, that music, song, and dance, made 
their principal entertainment. It is chiefly in America, that we have had 
the opportunit}' of being made acquainted with men in their savage state. 
We learn from the particular and concurring accounts of travellers, that 
among all the nations of that vast continent, especially among the north- 
ern tribes, with whom we have had most intercourse, music and song 
are, at all their meetings, carried on with an incredible degree of enthu- 
siasm ; that the chiefs of the tribe are those who signalize themselves 
most on such occasions ; that it is in songs they celebrate their religious 
rites ; that, by these they lament their public and private calamities, the 
death of friends, or the loss of warriors 5 express their joy on their 
victories ; celebrate the great actions of their nation, and their heroes ; 
excite each other to perform great exploits in war, or to suffer death and 
torments with unshaken constancy. 

Here then we see the first beginnings of poetic composition, in those 
rude effusions, which the enthusiasm of fancy or passion suggested to 
untaught men, when roused by interesting events, and by their meeting 
together in public assemblies. Two particulars would early distinguish 
this language of song, from that in which they conversed on the common 
occurrences of life ; namely, an unusual arrangement of words, and the 
employment of bold figures of speech. It would invert words or change 
them from that order in which they are commonly placed, to that which 
most suited the train in which they rose in the speaker's imagination : or 
which was most accommodated to the cadence of the passion by which 
he was moved. Under the influence too of any strong emotion, objects 
do not appear to us such as they really are, but such as passion makes us 
see them. We magnify and exaggerate ; we seek to interest all others 
in what causes our emotion ; we compare the least things to the greatest ; 
we call upon the absent as well as the present, and even address our- 
selves to things inanimate. Hence, in congruity with those various move 
rnents of the mind, arise those turns of expression, which we now dis- 
tinguish by the learned names of hyperbole, prosopopoeia, simile, &lc, 
but which are no other than the native original language of poetry, among 
the most barbarous nations. 

Man is both a poet and a musician by nature. The same impulse which 
prompted the enthusiastic poetic style, prompted a certain melody, or 
modulation of sound, suited to the emotions of joy or grief, of admiration, 
love, or anger. There is a power in sound, which partly from nature, 
partly from habit and association, makes such pathetic impressions on the 
fancy, as delight even the most wild barbarians. Music and poetry, 
therefore, had the same rise ; they were prompted by the same occa- 
sions ; they were united in song ; and, as long as they continued united, 
they tended, without doubt, mutually to heighten and exalt each other's 
power. The first poets sung their own verses ; and hence the begin- 
ning of what we call versification, or words arranged in a more artful 
order than prose, so as to be suited to some tune or melody. The 
liberty of transposition, or inversion, which the poetic style, as I observ- 
ed, would naturally assume, made it easier to form the words into some 
*ortof numbers that fell in with the music of the song. Very harsh and 
uncouth, we may easily believe, these numbers would be at first But 



T. XXXVIII.] ORIGIN AND PROGRESS OF POETRV. 379 

the pleasure was felt ; it was studied : and versification, by degrees. 
passed into an art. 

It appears from what has been said, that the first compositions which 
were either recorded by writing, or transmitted by tradition, could be no 
other than poetical compositions. No other but these, could draw the 
attention of men in their rude uncivilized state. Indeed, they knew no 
other. Cool reasoning and plain discourse, had no power to attract 
savage tribes, addicted only to hunting and war. There was nothing that 
could either rouse the speaker to pour himself forth, or draw the crowd 
to listen, but the high powers of passion, of music, and of song. This 
vehicle, therefore, and no other, could be employed by chiefs and legis- 
lators, when they meant to instruct or to animate their tribes. There is, 
likewise, a farther reason why such compositions only could be trans- 
mitted to posterity ; because, before writing was invented, songs only 
could last, and be remembered. The ear gave assistance to the momory, 
by the help of numbers ; fathers repeated and sung them to their chil- 
dren ; and by this oral tradition of national ballads, were conyeyed all the 
historical knowledge, and all the instruction of the first ages. 

The earliest accounts which history gives us concerning all nations, 
bear testimon3 r to these facts. In the first ages of Greece, priests, phi- 
losophers, and statesmen, all delivered their instructions in poetry. 
Apollo, Orpheus, and Amphion, their most ancient bards, are represented 
as the first tamers of mankind, the first founders of laws and civilization. 
Minos and Thales sung to the lyre the laws which they composed ;"* 
and till the age immediately preceding that of Herodotus, history had 
appeared in no other form than that of poetical tales. 

In the same manner among ail other nations, poems and songs are the 
first objects that make their appearance. Among the Scythian or Gothic 
nations, many of their kings and leaders were scalders,or poets ; and it 
is from their runic songs, that the most early writers of their history, 
such as Saxo-Grammaticus, acknowledged, that they had derived their 
chief information. Among the Celtic tribes in Gaul, Britain, and Ireland, 
we know in what admiration their bards were held, and how great influ- 
ence they possessed over the people. They were both poets and musi- 
cians, as all the first pGets in every country were. They were always 
near the person of the chief or sovereign ; they recorded all his great 
exploits ; they were employed as the ambassadors between contending 
tribes, and their persons were held sacred. 

From this deduction it follows, that as we have reason to look for 
poems and songs among the antiquities of all countries, so we may expect, 
that in the strain of these there will be a remarkable resemblance, during 
the primitive periods of every country. The occasions of their being 
composed, are every where nearly the same. The praises of gods and 
heroes, the celebration of famed ancestors, the recital of martial deeds, 
songs of victory, and songs of lamentation over the misfortunes and death 
of their countrymen, occur among all nations ; and the same enthusiasm 
and fire, the same wild and irregular, but animated composition, concise 
and glowing style, bold and extravagant figures of speech, are the gene- 
ral distinguishing characters of all the most ancient original poetry. That 
strong hyperbolical manner, which we have been long accustomed to call 
Hie oriental manner of poetry, (because some of the earliest poetical 

Straboil, 1" 



38Q ORIGIN AND PROGRESS OF POETRY, j LECT. XXXViK 

productions came to us from the east) is in truth no more oriental than 
occidental ; it is characteristlcal of an age rather than of a country ; and 
belongs, in some measure, to all nations at that period which first gives 
rise to music and to song. Mankind never resemble each other so much 
as they do in the beginnings of society. Its subsequent revolutions give 
birth to the principal distinctions of character among nations, and divert 
into channels widely separated, that current of human genius aucl man- 
ners, which descends originally from one spring. 

Diversity of climate, and of manner of living, wil), however, occa- 
sion some diversity in the strain of the first poetry of nations ; chiefly 
according as those nations are of a more ferocious, or of a more gentle 
spirit; and according as they advance faster or slower in the arts of 
civilization. Thus we find all the remains of the ancient Gothic poetry re- 
markably fierce, and breathing nothing but slaughter and blood ; while 
the Peruvian and the Chinese songs turned, from the earliest times, 
upon milder subjects. The Celtic poetry, in the days of Ossian, though 
chiefly of the martial kind, yet had attained a considerable mixture of 
tenderness and refinement ; in consequence of the long cultivation of 
poetry among the Celtse, by means of a series and succession of bards 
which had been established for ages. So Lucan informs us : 

Vos quoque qui fortes animos, belioque peremptos 
Laudibusin iongum vates diftunditis Eevum, 
Plarima securi fudistis carraina bardi* L. 41. 

Among the Grecian nations, their early poetry appears to have soon 
received a philosophical cast, from what we are informed concerning 
the subjects of Orpheus, Linus, and Musaeus, who treated of creation 
and of chaos, of the generation of the world, and of the rise of things ; 
and we know that the Greeks advanced sooner to philosophy, and pro- 
ceeded with a quicker pace in all the arts of refinement, than most 
other nations. 

The Arabians and the Persians have always been the greatest poets 
of the east ; and among them, as among other nations, poetry was the 
earliest vehicle of all their learning and instruction.! The ancient 
Arabs, we are informed, + valued themselves much on their metrical com- 
positions, which were of two sorts ; the one they compared to loose 
pearls, and the other txTpearls strung. In the former, the sentences or 
verses were without connexion ; and their beauty arose from the ele- 
gance of the expression, and the acuteness of the sentiment. The moral 
doctrines of the Persians were generally comprehended in such inde- 
pendent proverbial apophthegms, formed into verse. In this respect they 
bear a considerable resemblance to the Proverbs of Solomon ; a great 
part of which book consists of unconnected poetrj*, like the loose pearls 
of the Arabians, The same form of composition appears also in the 
book of Job. The Greeks seem to have been the first who introduced 
a more regular structure, and closer connexion of parts, into their poe- 
tical writings. 

■ You too, ye bards, whom sacred raptures fire, 
To chant your heroes to your country's lyre, 
Who consecrate in your immortal strain, 
Brave patriot souls in righteous battle slain ; 
Securely now the useful task renew, 
And noblest themes in deathless songs pursue. Rowr. 

t Vid. Voyages de Chardin, chap, de la Poesie des Persans. 

I Yid, Preliminarv Discourse to Sale's Translation of the Koran. 



UXT. XXXVIil.] ORIGIN AND PROGRESS OF POETRY. 3gj 

During the infancy of poetry, all the different kinds of it lay confused, 
and were mingled in the same composition, according as inclination, 
enthusiasm, or casual incidents, directed the poet's strain. In ihe pro- 
gress of society and arts, they began to assume those different regular 
forms, and to be distinguished by those different names under which we 
now know them. But in the first rude state of poetical effusions, we 
can easily discern the seeds and beginnings of all the kinds of regular 
poetry. Odes and hymns of every sort, would naturally be among the 
first compositions ; according as the bards were moved by religious feel- 
ings, by exultation, resentment, love, or any other warm sentiment, to 
pour themselves forth in song. Plaintive or elegiac poetry, would as 
naturally arise from lamentations over their deceased friends. The re- 
cital of the achievements of their heroes, and their ancestors, gave 
birth to what we cow call epic poetry ; and as not content with simply 
reciting these, they would infallibly be led, at some of their public meet- 
ings, to represent them, by introducing different bards, speaking in the 
character of their heroes, and answering each other, we find in this 
the first outlines of tragedy, or dramatic writing. 

None of these kinds of poetry, however, were in the first ages of 
society properly distinguished or separated, as they are now, from each 
other. Indeed, not only were the different kinds of poetry then mixed 
together, but all that we now call letters, or composition of any kind, 
was then blended in one mass. At first, history, eloquence, and poetry, 
were all the same. Whoever wanted to move or to persuade, to 
inform or to entertain his countrymen and neighbours, whatever was the 
subject, accompanied his sentiment and tales with the melody of song. 
This was the case in that period of society, when the character and oc- 
cupations of the husbandman and the builder, the warrior and the states- 
man, were united in one person. When the progress of society brought 
on a separation of the different arts and professions of civil life, it led 
also by degrees to a separation of the different literary provinces from 
each other. 

The art of writing was in process of time invented ; records of past 
transactions began to be kept : men, occupied with the subjects of policy 
and useful arts, wished now to be instructed and informed, as well as 
moved. They reasoned and reflected upon the affairs of life ; and were 
interested by what was real, not fabulous, in past transactions. The 
historian, therefore, now laid aside the buskins of poetry ; he wrote 
in prose, and attempted to give a faithful and judicious relation of for- 
mer events. The philosopher addressed himself chiefly to the under- 
standing. The orator studied to persuade by reasoning, and retained 
more or less of the ancient passionate and glowing style, according as 
it was conducive to his purpose. Poetry became now a separate art, 
calculated chiefly to please, and confined generally to such subjects as 
related to the imagination and passions. Even its earliest companion, 
music, was in a great measure divided from it. 

These separations brought all the literary arts into a more regular 
form, and contributed to the exact and accurate cultivation of each. 
Poetry, however, in its ancient original condition, was perhaps more 
vigorous than it is in its modern state. It included then, the whole burst 
of the human mind ; the whole exertion of its imaginative faculties. It 
spoke then the language of passion, and no other ; for to passion, it 
owed its birth. Prompted and inspired by objects, which to him seem- 



38 {> VERSIFICATION. [LECT. XXXVI! I 

ed great, by events, which interested his country or his friends, the. 
early bard arose and sung. He sung indeed in wild and disorderly 
strains, but they were the native effusions of his heart ; they were the 
ardent conceptions of admiration or resentment, of sorrow or friendship, 
which he poured forth. It is no wonder, therefore, that in the rude and 
artless strain of the first poetry of all nations, we should often find 
somewhat that captivates and transports the mind. In after ages, when 
poetry became a regular art, studied for reputation and for gain, authors 
began to affect what they did not feel. Composing coolty in their clo- 
sets, they endeavoured to imitate passion, rather than to express it ; 
they tried to force their imagination into raptures, or to supply the de- 
fect of native warmth, by those artificial ornaments which might give 
composition a splendid appearance. 

The separation of music from poetry, produced consequences not fa- 
vourable in some respects to poetry, and in many respects hurtful to 
music* As long as they remained united, music enlivened and animated 
poetry, and poetry gave force and expression to musical sound. The 
music of that early period was, beyond doubt, extremely simple ; and 
must have consisted chiefly of such pathetic notes, as the voice could 
adapt to the w 7 ords of the song. Musical instruments, such as flutes, 
and pipes, and a lyre with a very few strings, appear to have been early 
invented among some nations ; but no more was intended by these in- 
struments, than simply to accompany the voice, and to heighten the 
melody of song. The poet' s strain was always heard ; and from many cir- 
cumstances, it appears, that among the ancient Greeks, as well as among 
other nations, the bard sung his verses, and played upon his harp or 
lyre at the same time. In this state, the art of music was, when it pro- 
duced all those great effects, of which we read so much in ancient 
history. And certain it is, that from simple music only, and from music 
accompanied with verse or song, we are to look for strong expression, 
and powerful influence over the human mind. When instrumental mu- 
sic came to be studied as a separate art, divested of the poet's song, and 
formed into the artificial and intricate combinations of harmony, it lost 
all its ancient power of inflaming the hearers with strong emotions ; 
and sunk into an art of mere amusement, among polished and luxurious 
nations. 

Still, however, poetry preserves, in all countries, some remains of 
its first and original connexion with music. By being uttered in song, 
it was formed into numbers, or into an artificial arrangement of words 
and syllables, very different in different countries ; but such, as to the 
inhabitants of each, seemed most melodious and agreeable in sound. 
Whence arises that great characteristic of poetry which we now call 
verse ; a subject which comes next to be treated of. 

It is a subject of a curious nature ; but as 1 am sensible, that were I 
to pursue it as far as my inclination leads, it would give rise to discus- 
sions, which the greater part of readers would consider as minute, I 
>hall confine myself to a few observations upon English versification. 

Nations, whose language and pronunciation were of a musical kind, 
rested their versification chiefly upon the quantities, that is, the length 
or shortness of their syllables. Others, who did not make the quanti- 
se Dr. Brown's Dissertation on the Rise, Utyxoa, and Separation of Poetry and 



tJECT. XXXVIIL] VERSIFICATION. 333 

ties of their syllables be so distinctly perceived in pronouncing them, 
rested the melody of their verse upon the number of syllables it con- 
tained, upon the proper disposition of accents and pauses in it, and fre- 
quently upon that return of corresponding sounds, which we call rhyme. 
The former was the case with the Greeks and Romans ; the latter is 
the case with us, and with most modern nations. Among the Greeks and 
Romans, every syllable, or the far greatest number at least, was known 
to have a fixed and determined quantity ; and their manner of pronoun- 
cing rendered this so sensible to the ear, that a long syllable was count- 
ed precisely equal in time to two short ones. Upon this principle, the 
number of syllables contained in their hexameter verse was allowed to 
vary. It may extend to 17 ; it can contain, when regular, no fewer than 
13 ; but the musical time was, notwithstanding, precisely the same in 
every hexameter verse, and was always equal to that of 12 long sylla- 
bles. In order to ascertain the regular time of every verse, and the 
proper mixture and succession of long and short syllables, which ought 
to compose it, were invented, what the grammarians call metrical feet, 
dactyles, spondees, iambus, &c. By these measures was tried the ac- 
curacy of composition in every line, and whether it was so constructed 
as to complete its proper melody. It was requisite, for instance, that the 
hexameter verse should have the quantity of its syllables so disposed, 
that it could be scanned or measured by six metrical feet, which might 
be either dactyles or spondees (as the musical time of both these is the 
same) with this restriction only, that the fifth foot was regularly to be a 
dactyle, and the last a spondee.* 

The introduction of these feet into English verse, would be altogether 
out of place ; for the genius of our language corresponds not in this 
respect to the Greek or Latin. I say not, that we have no regard to 
quantity, or to long and short, in pronouncing. Many words we have, 
especially our words consisting of several syllables, where the quantity, 
or the long and short syllables, are invariably fixed ; but great numbers 
we have also, where the quantity is left altogether loose. This is the 
case with a great part of our words consisting of two syllables, and 
with almost all of our monosyllables. In general, the difference made be- 
tween long and short syllables, in our manner of pronouncing them, is 
so very inconsiderable, and so much liberty is left us for making them 
either long or short at pleasure, that mere quantity is of very little 

* Some writers imagine, that the feet in Latin verse were intended to correspond 
to bars in music, and to form musical intervals or distinctions, sensible to' the ear in. 
the pronunciation of the line. Had this been the case, every kind of verse must have 
had a peculiar order of feet appropriated to it. Bat the common prosodies show, 
that there are several forms of Latin verse which are capable of being measured in- 
differently, by a series of feet of very different kinds. For instance, what is called the 
Asclepedaean verse (in which the first Ode of Horace is written) may be scanned 
either by a Spondeus, two Choriambus's, and'a Pyrrichius ; or by a Spondeus, a Dae- 
tylus succeeded by a Caesura, and two Dactylus's. The common Pentameter, and 
some other forms of verse, admit the like varieties ; and yet the melody of the verse, 
remains always the same, though it be scanned by different feet. This proves, that 
the metrical feet were not sensible in the pronunciation of the line, but were intend- 
ed only to regulate its construction; or applied as measures, to try whether the 
succession of long and short syllables was such as suited the melody of the verse : 
and as feet of different kinds could sometimes be applied for this purpose, hence it 
happened, that some forms of verse were capable of being scanned in different way?, 
lor measuring the hexameter line, no other feet were found so proper as Dactyles and 
Spondees,, and therefore by these it is uniformly scanned. But no ear is sensible of 
the termination of each foot, in reading an hexameter line. From a misapprehen- 
sion of this matter, I apprehend that confusion has sometimes arisen among writer?, 
in treating of the prosody both of Latin and of English verse. 



584 VERSIFICATION [LfcCT. XXXYII/ 

effect in English versification. The only perceptible difference among 
our syllables, arises from some of them being uttered with that stronger 
percussion of voice, which we call accent. This accent does not always 
make the syllable longer, but gives it more force of sound only ; and it 
is upon a certain order and succession of accented and unaccented sylla- 
bles, infinitely more than upon their being long or short, that the melody 
of our verse depends. If we take any of Mr. Pope's lines, and in re- 
citing them alter the quantity of the syllables, as far as our quantities 
are sensible, the music of the verse will not be much injured : whereas 
if we do not accent the syllables according as the verse dictates, its me- 
lody will be totally destroyed.* 

Our English heroic verse is of what may be culled an iambac struc- 
ture ; that is, composed of a succession nearly alternate of syllables, 
not short and long, but unaccented and accented. With regard to the 
place of these accents, however, some liberty is admitted, for the sake 
of variety. Very often, though not always, the line begins with an un- 
accented syllable ; and sometimes in the course of it, two unaccented 
syllables follow each other. But in general, there are either five or 
ibur, accented syllables in each line. The number of syllables is ten, 
unless when an Alexandrian verse is occasionally admitted. In verses 
not Alexandrian, instances occur where the line appears to have more 
than the limited number. But in such instances, I apprehend it will be 
found, that some of the liquid syllables are so slurred in pronouncing, 
as to bring the verse, with respect to its effect upon the ear, within the 
usual bounds. 

Another essential circumstance in the constitution of our verse, is 
the csesural pause, which falls towards the middle of each line. Some 
pause of this kind, dictated by the melody, is found in the verse of most 
nations. It is found, as might be shown, in the Latin hexameter. In 
the French heroic verse it is very sensible. That is a verse of twelve 
syllables ; and in every line, just after the sixth syllable, there foils 
regularly and indispensably, a csesural pause, dividing the line into two 
equal hemistichs. For example, in the first lines of Boileau's Epistle 
to the king : 

Jeune et vaillant heros j dont la haute sagesse 
N'est point le fruit tardif | d'une lente vieillesse, 
Qui seul sans Ministre | a I'exaraple desDieux 
Soutiens tout par toi meme | et vois tous par ses veux. 

In this train all their verses proceed ; the one half of the line always 
answering to the other, and the same chime returning incessantly on the 
ear without intermission or change ; which is certainly a defect in their 
verse, and unfits it so very much for the freedom and dignity of heroic 
poetry. On the other hand, it is a distinguishing advantage of our Eng- 
lish verse, that it allows the pause to be varied through four different 
syllables in the line. The pause may fall after the 4th, the 5th, the 6th, 
or the 7th syllable ; and according as the pause is placed after one or 

* See this well illustrated in Lord Monboddo's Treatise of the Origin and Progress 
of Language, Vol. II. under the head of the Prosody of Language. He shows that 
this is not the only constitution of our own verse, but that by our manner of reading 
Latin verse, we make its music nearly the same. For we certainly do not pro- 
nounce it according to the ancient quantities, so as to make the musical time of one 
lung syllable equal to two short ones ; but according to a succession of accented and 
unaccented syllables, only mixed in a ratio different from that of our own verse- 
No Roman could possibly understand our pronunciation. 



fcECT. XXXVIII.] VERSIFICATION 30^ 

other of the syllables, the melody of the verse is* much changed, its air 
and cadence are diversified. By this means, uncommon richness and 
variety are added to English versification. 

When the pause falls earliest, that is, after the 4th syllable, the brisk- 
est melody is thereby formed* and the most spirited air given to the 
line. In the following lines of the Rape of the Lock, Mr. Pope ha3j 
with exquisite propriety, suited the construction of the verse to the 
subject. 

On her white breast | a sparkling cross she wove, 
Which Jews might kiss | and infidels adore; 
Her lively looks j a sprightly tnind disclose, 
Quick as her eyes | and as unfiVd as those. 

• Favours to none | to all she smiles extends, 

Oft she reject | but never once offends. 

When the pause falls after the 5th syllable, which divides the line into 
two equal portions, the melody is sensibly altered. The verse loses 
that brisk and sprightly air, which it had with the former pause, and 
becomes more smooth, gentle, and flowing. 

Eternal sunshine [ of the spotless mind, 
Each prayer accepted j and each wish resign'd. 

When the pause proceeds to follow the 6th syllable, the tenor of thft 
music becomes solemn and grave. The verse marches now with a more 
slow and measured pace, than in either of the two former cases. 

The wrath of Peleus' son | the direful spring 
Of all the Grecian Woes | 6 goddess, sing ! 

But the grave, solemn cadence becomes still more sensible, when the 
pause falls after the 7th syllable, which is the nearest place to the eod of 
the line that it can occupy. This kind of verse occurs the seldomest, 
but has a happy effect in diversifying the melody. It produces that slow 
Alexandrian air which is finely suited to a close ; and for this reason* 
such lines almost never occur together, but are used in finishing the 
couplet. 

And in the smooth description j murmur still. 
Long lov'd ador'd ideas ! j all adieu. 

I have taken my examples from verses in rhyme; because in these, out 
versification is subjected to the strictest law. As blank verse is of a freer 
kind, and naturally is read with less cadence or tone, the pauses in it, 
and the effect of them, are not always so sensible to the ear. It is con- 
structed, however, entirely upon the same principles with respect to the 
place of the pause. There are some, who, in order to exalt the variety 
and the power of our heroic verse, have maintained that it admits of 
musical pauses, not only after those four syllables, where I assigned their 
place, hut after any one syllable in the verse indifferently, where the 
sense directs it to be placed. This, in my opinion, is the same thing as to 
maintain that there is no pause at all belonging to the natural melody of 
the verse ; since, according to this notion, the pause is formed entirely to 
the meaning, not by the music. But this I apprehend to be contrary both 
to the nature of versification, and to the experience of every good ear.*" 

* In the Italian heroic verse employed by Tasso in his Gierusalemme, and Arioste* 
in his Orlando, the pauses are of the same varied nature with those which I have 
shown to belong to English versification j and fall after the same four syllables in the! 
line. Marmontel, in his Poetique Francoi'se, Vol. I. p. 269, takes notice that this con-, 
st ruction of verse is common to the Italians and the English ; and defends the unifor- 
mity of the French caesura! pause upon this ground, that the alternation of masculine 

Ccc 



gg£ VERSIFICATION LECT. XXXI 

Those certainly are the happiest lines, wherein the pause, prompted by 
the melody, coincides in some degree with that of the sense, or at least 
does not tend to spoil or interrupt the meaning. Wherever any opposi- 
tion between the music and the sense chances to take place, I observed 
before, in treating of pronunciation or delivery, that the proper method 
of reading these lines, is to read them according as the sense dictates, 
liCglecting or slurring the caesural pause j which renders the line less 
graceful indeed, bat, however, does not entirely destroy its sound. 

Our blank verse possesses great advantages, and is indeed a noble 
bold, and disencumbered species of versification. The principal defect 
in rhyme, is the full close which it forces upon the ear, at the end of 
every couplet. Blank verse is freed from this ; and allows the lines to 
run into each other with as great liberty as the Latin hexameter permits, 
perhaps with greater. Hence it is particularly suited to subjects of 
dignity and force, which demand more free and manly numbers than 
rh} ? me. The constraint and strict regularity of rhyme are unfavourable 
to the sublime, or to the highly pathetic strain. An epic poem, or a 
tragedy, would be fettered and degraded by it. It is best adapted to com- 
positions of a temperate strain, 'where no particular vehemence is requi- 
red in the sentiments, nor great sublimity in the style ; such as pastorals, 
elegies, epistles, satires, &c. To these it communicates that degree of 
elevation which is proper for them ; and without any other assistance 
sufficiently distinguishes the style from prose. He who should write such 
poems in blank verse, would render his work harsh and unpleasing. In 
order to support a poetical style, he would be obliged to affect a pomp 
of language unsuitable to the subject. 

Though I join in opinion with those, who think that rhyme finds its 
proper place in the middle, but not in the higher regions of poetry, I 
can by no means join in the invectives which some have poured out 
against it, as if it were a mere barbarous jingling of sounds, fit only for 
children, and owing to nothing but the corruption of taste in the monkish 
ages. Rhyme might indeed be barbarous in Latin or Greek verse, be- 
cause these languages, by the sonorousness of their words, by their liberty 
of transposition and iuversion, by their fixed quantities and musical pro- 
nunciation, could carry on the melody of verse without its aid. But it 
does not follow, that therefore it must be barbarous in the English lan- 
guage, which is destitute of these advantages. Every language has 
powers and graces, and music peculiar to itself; and what is becoming 
}u one, would be ridiculous in another. Rhyme was barbarous in Latin ; 
and an attempt to construct English verses, after the form of hexameters, 
and pentameters, and sapphics, is as barbarous among us. It is not true, 
that rhyme is merely a monkish invention. On the contrary, it has 
obtained under different forms, in the versification of most known nations. 
It is found in the ancient poetry of the northern nations of Europe ; it is 
said to be found among the Arabs, the Persians, the Indians, and the 
Americans. This shows that there is something in the return of similar 
sounds, which is grateful to the ears of most part of mankind. And if 
any one, after reading Mr. Pope's Rape of the Lock, or Eloisa to Abelard, 
shall not admit our rhyme, with all its varieties of pauses, to carry both 

and feminine rhymes, furnishes sufficient variety to the French poetry ; whereas 
the change of movement, occasioned by the four different pauses in English and 
Italian verse, produces, according to him, too great diversity. On the head of 
pauses in English versification, see the Elements of Criticism, chap. 18. sect. 4, 






MBCT. XXXIX.] PASTORAL POETRY. 337 

elegance and sweetness of sound, his ear must be pronounced to be of 
a very peculiar kind. 

The present form of our English heroic rhyme in couplets, is a modern 
species of versification. The measure generally used in the days of 
Queen Elizabeth, King James, and King Charles J. was the stanza 01 
eight lines, such as Spencer employs, borrowed from the Italian ; a mea- 
sure very constrained and artificial. Waller was the first who brought 
couplets into vogue ; and Dryden afterward established the usage. 
Waller first smoothed our verse ; Dryden perfected it. Mr. Pope's veri- 
fication has a peculiar character, it is flowing and smooth in the highest 
degree : far more laboured and correct than that of any who went 
before him. He introduced one considerable change into heroic verse, 
by totally throwing aside the triplets, or three lines rhyming together, in 
which Mr. D^den abounded. Dryden's versification, however, has 
very great merit ; and, like all his productions, has much spirit, mixed 
with carelessness. If not so smooth and correct as Pope's, it is however 
more varied and easy. He subjects himself less to the rule of closing 
the sense with the couplet; and frequently takes the liberty of making 
his couplets run into one another, with so'mew hat of the freedom of 
blank verse. 



LECTURE XXXIX 



PASTORAL POETRY— LYRIC POETRY. 

In the last lecture, 1 gave an account of the rise and progress of 
poetry, and made some observations on the nature of English versifica- 
tion. I now proceed to treat of the chief kinds of poetical composition ; 
and of the critical rules that relate to them. I shall follow that order 
which is most simple and natural ; beginning with the lesser forms of 
poetry, and ascending from them to the epic and dramatic, as the most 
dignified. This lecture shall be employed on pastoral and lyric poetry. 

Though I begin with the consideration of pastoral poetry, it is not 
because I consider it as one of the earliest forms of poetical composi- 
tion. On the contrary, 1 am of opinion that it was not cultivated as a 
distinct species, or subject of writing, until society had advanced in re- 
finement. Most authors have indeed indulged the fancy, that becausetha 
life which mankind at first led was rural, therefore, their first poetry 
was pastoral, or employed in the celebration of rural scenes and objects. 
I make no doubt, that it would borrow many of its images and allusions 
from those natural objects with which men were best acquainted; but [ 
am persuaded that the calm and tranquil scenes of rural felicity 
were not, by any means, the first objects which inspired that strain of 
composition, which we now call poetry. It was inspired,* in the first 
periods of every nation, by events and objects which roused men's pas- 
sions ; or, at least, awakened their wonder and admiration. Theactions 
of their gods and heroes, their own exploits in war, the successes or 
misfortunes of their countrymen and friends, furnished the first themes 
to the bards of every country. What was of a pastoral kind in their 
compositions, was incidental only. They did not think of choosing for 



3 ftft PASTORAL POETRY. [LFX'T. XXXIX. 

their theme the tranquillity and the pleasures of the country, as long as 
these weFe daily and familiar objects to them. It was not till men had 
"begun to be assembled in great cities, after the distinctions of rank and 
stations were formed, and the bustle of courts and large societies was 
known, that pastoral poetry assumed its present form. Men then began 
to look back upon the more simple and innocent life which their fore- 
fathers led, or which, at least, they fancied them to have led : they 
looked back upon it with pleasure, and in those rural scenes, and pas- 
toral occupations, imagining a degree of felicity to take place, superior to 
what they now enjoyed, conceived the idea of celebrating it in poetr} r . 
It was in the court of King Ptolemy, that Theocritus wrote the first pas- 
torals with which we are acquainted ; and, in the court of Augustus, he 
was imitated by Virgil. 

But whatever ma}' have been the origin of pastoral poetry, it is un- 
doubtedly a natural and very agreeable form of poetical composition. 
It recalls to our imagination those gay scenes, and pleasing views of na- 
ture, which commonly are the delight of our childhood and youth ; and 
to which, in more advanced years, the greatest part of men recur with 
pleasure. It exhibits to us a life with which we are accustomed to 
associate the ideas of peace, of leisure, and of innocence ; and, there- 
fore, we readily set open our heart to such representations as promise 
to banish from our thoughts the cares of the world ; and to transport 
vis into calm elysian regions. At the same time, no subject seems to be 
more favourable to poetr} r . Amidst rural objects, nature presents on 
all hands the finest field for description ; and nothing appears to flow 
more, of its own accord, into poetical numbers, than rivers and moun- 
tains, meadows and bills, flocks and trees, and shepherds void of care. 
Hence, this species of poetry has, at all times, allured many readers, 
and excited many writers. But, notwithstanding the advantages it pos- 
sesses, it will appear from what I have farther to observe upon it, that 
there is hardly any species of poetr}' which is more difficult to be car- 
ried to perfection, or in which fewer writers have excelled. 

Pastoral life may be considered in three different views ; either such 
as it now actually is, when the state of shepherds is reduced to be a 
mean, servile, and laborious state ; when their employments are be- 
come disagreeable, and their ideas gross and low : or such as we may 
suppose it once to have been, in the more early and simple ages, when 
it was a life of ease and abundance ; when the wealth of men consisted 
chiefly in flocks and herds, and the shepherd, though unrefined in his 
manners, was respectable in his state ; or lastly, such as it never was, 
and never can in reality be, when, to the ease, innocence, and simpli- 
city of the early ages, we attempt to add the polished taste, and culti- 
vated manners, of modern times. Of these three states, the first is too 
gross and mean, the last too refined and unnatural, to be made the 
groundwork of pastoral poetry. Either of these extremes is a rock 
upon which the poet will split, if he approach too near it. We shall 
be disgusted if he gives us too much of the servile employments, and 
low ideas of actual peasants, as Theocritus is censured for having some- 
times done : and if, like some of the French and Italian writers of pas- 
torals, he makes his shepherds discourse as if they were courtiers and 
scholars, he then retains the name only, but wants the spirit of pastoral 
poetry. 

Me must, therefore, keen in the middle station between these. He 



KECT. XXXIX.] PASTORAL POETRY. 339 

tnust form to himself the idea of a rural state, such as in certain periods 
of society may have actually taken place, whefle there was ease, equa- 
lity, and innocence ; where shepherds were gay and agreeable, without 
being learned or refined ; and plain and artless, without being gross 
and wretched. The great charm of pastoral poetry arises, from the 
view which it exhibits of the tranquillity aud happiness of a rural life. 
This pleasing allusion, therefore, the poet must carefully maintain. He 
must display to us all that is agreeable in that state, but hide whatever 
is displeasing.* Let him paint its simplicity and innocence to the full ; 
but cover its rudeness and misery. Distresses, indeed, and anxieties he 
may attribute to it ; for it would be perfectly unnatural to suppose any 
condition of human life to be without them ; but they must be of such a 
nature, as not to shock the fancy with any thing peculiarly disgusting 
in the pastoral life. The shepherd may well be afflicted for the displea- 
sure of his mistress, or for the loss of a favourite lamb. It is a sufficient 
recommendation of any state, to have only such evils as these to deplore. 
in short, it is the pastoral life somewhat embellished and beautified, at 
least, seen on its fairest side only, that the poet ought to present to us. 
But let him take care, that, in embellishing nature, he do not altogether 
disguise her ; or pretend to join with rural simplicity and happiness, 
such improvements as are unnatural and foreign to it. If it be not ex- 
actly real life which he presents to us, it must, however, be somewhat 
that resembles it. This, in my opinion, is the general idea of pastoral 
poetry. But, in order to examine it more particularly, let us consider, 
iirst, the scenery ; next, the characters ; and, lastly, the subjects and 
actions, which this sort of composition should exhibit. 

As to ihe scene, it is clear, that it must always be laid in the country, 
and much of the poet's merit depends on describing it beautifully . Virgil 
Is, in this respect, excelled by Theocritus, whose descriptions of natural 
beauties are richer, and more picturesque than those of the other.! In 
every pastoral, a scene, or rural prospect, should be distinctly drawn, 

* In the following beautiful lines of the first Eclogue. Virgil has, in the true 
spirit of a pastoral poet, brought together as agreeable an assemblage of images of 
raral pleasure as can any where be found : 

Fortunate senex ! hie inter flumina nota, 

Et fontes sacros, frigus captabis opacuia. 

Hinc tibi, quae semper vicino ab limite sepes, 

Hyblaeis apibus, florem depasta salicti. 

Saepe tevi somnum suadebit inire susurro, 

Hinc alta sub rupe, canet frondatcrad auras ; 

Nee tamen interea, raucas, tua cura, palumbes, 

Nee getnere aeria cessabit turtur ab ulmo. 

Happy old man ! here mid th' accustom'd streams 
And sacred springs, you'll shun the scorching beams ; 
While from yon willow fence, thy pasture's bound, 
The bees that suck their flowery stores around, 
Shall sweetly mingle, with the whispering boughs, 
Their lulling murmurs, and invite repose. 
While from steep rocks the pruner's song is heard 5 
Nor the soft cooing dove, thy fav'rite bird 5 
Meanwhile shall cease to breathe her melting strain, 
Nor turtles from th J aerial elms to 'plain. Wartox. 

f What rural scenery, for instance, can be painted, in more lively colours, than 
tie following description exhibits ? 






AlhlUS <7<%IV010 c/afAVJViJlV tKXuBn/UH 
Ei> n viorfAaroiTi yey aborts citv*geoi%t. 
Tlcykat Faulty vn?Qi Kara x^sitos efowov 



390 PASTORAL POETRY. [LECT. XXXIX, 

and set before us. It is not enough, that we have those unmeaning 
groups of violets and mes, of birds, and brooks, and breezes, which our 
common pastoral-mongers throw together, and which are perpetually re- 
curring upon us without variation. A good poet ought to give us such 
a landscape, as a painter could copy after. His objects must be particu- 
larized ; the stream, the rock, or the tree, must each of them stand forth, 
so as to make a figure in the imagination, and to give us a pleasing con- 
ception of the place where we are. A single object, happily introduced, 
will sometimes distinguish and characterize a whole scene ; such as the 
antique rustic sepulchre, a very beautiful object in a landscape, which 
Virgil has set before us, and which he has taken from Theocritus. 

Hinc adeo media est nobis via ; jamque sepulchrum 

Incipit apparere Bianoris ; hie ubi densas 

Agricolse stringunt frondes Eel. IX.* 

Not only in professed descriptions of the scenery, but in the frequent 
allusions to natural objects, which occur, of course, in pastorals, the poet 
must, above all things, study variety. He must diversify his face of 
nature, by presenting to us new images ; or otherwise he will soon be- 
come insipid with those known topics of description, which were original, 
it is true, in the first poets, who copied them from nature, but which are 
now worn threadbare by incessant imitation. It is also incumbent on him, 
to suit the scenery to the subject of the pastoral ; and, according as 
it is of a gay or a melancholy kind, to exhibit nature under such 

kiyUQoi vrzxiai ri' <to eT' eyytBtv iegoy oSmg 
^ivju<pav s? cly-TQoto KU.ru 06/uavov Kixd^vcrfev. 
Tot cTg TTirt OKiiQAt; opza'difAVuriv avBxXiavze 
TiTriyt; XaXayearns t%ov -ovov. a eP' hxaMyitv 

TllXoQ&V iV TlViLCVCAicri 0drC6V <TgV^ZTX.ZV OLKStySxi!. 

Aufov KOguhiKal axatBiiz;, essvt rgvym' 
Ylctnwro guBctt nt^i Tri6a.x.as ay.qt /uzxirtriu. 
n*t"r' wS-cTsv &e£ios (jlolXcl 7nwoc \ ZoS't /' w7rwgtf? 
"0%yai/uh nag 7ro>T7i, izu^st TrXzvgxtTt «Ta (AaXat 
Aa^tXices cty.jut.lv ZMXivfero' <roi <T mi^vvro 
"O^XKis figct fiuxouri KurceC^iBovrii sg&g-Je. 



-on soft beds recline 



Theocrit. Idyll, vii. 132. 



Of lentisk, and young branches of the vine ; 

Poplars and elms above, their foliage spread, 

Lent a cool shade, and wav'd the breezy head ; 

Below, a stream, from the nymph's sacred cave, 

In free meanders led its murm'ring wave. 

In the warm sunbeams, verdant shades among, 

Shrill grasshoppers renewed their plaintive song : 

At distance far, conceal'd in shades, alone, 

Sweet Philomela poured her tuneful moan ; 

The lark, the goldfinch, warbled lays of love, 

And sweetly pensive coo'd the turtle dove ; 

While honey bees, for ever on the wing, 

Humm'd round the flowers, or sipt the silver spring, 

The rich, ripe season, gratified the sense 

With summer's sweets, and autumn's redolence. 

Apples and pears lay strew'd in heaps around, 

And the plum's loaded branches kiss'd the ground. Fawke-. 

To our mid journey are we come, 

1 see the top of Old Bianor's tomb ; 

Here, Mseris, where the swains thick branches prune, 

And strew their leaves, our voices let us tune WaKTON, 



LECT. XXXIX.] PASTORAL POJETRV". 39 1 

forms as may correspond with the emotions or sentiments which he 
describes. Thus Virgil, in his second eclogue, which contains the la- 
mentation of a despairing lover, gives, with propriety, a gloomy appear- 
ance to the scene : 

Tantum inter densas, umbrosa cacumina, fagos, 
Assidue veniebat ; ibi hsec incondita solus 
Montibus et sylvis studio jactabat inani,* 

With regard to the characters, or persons, which are proper to be 
introduced into pastorals, it is not enough that they be persons residing 
in the country. The adventures or the discourses of courtiers, or 
citizens, in the country, are not what we look for in such writings ; we 
expect to be entertained by shepherds, or persons wholly engaged in 
rural occupations ; whose innocence and freedom from the cares of the 
world may, in'our imagination, form an agreeable contrast with the manners 
and characters of those who are engaged in the bustle of life. 

One of the principal difficulties which here occurs has been already 
hinted ; that of keeping the exact medium between too much rusticity 
on the one hand, and too much refinement on the other. The shep- 
herd, assuredly, must be plain and unaffected in his manner of thinking, 
on all subjects. An amiable simplicity must be the groundwprk of his 
character. At the same time, there is no necessity for his being dull 
and insipid. He may have good sense and reflection ; he may have 
sprightliness and vivacity ; he may have very tender and delicate feel- 
ings ; since these are, more or less, the portion of men in all ranks of 
life ; and since, undoubtedly, there was much genius in the world, be- 
fore there were learning or arts to refine it. But then he must not subtil* 
ize ; he must not deal in general reflections and abstract reasoning ; and 
still less in the points and conceits of an affected gallantry, which surely 
belong not to his character and situation. Some of these conceits are 
the chief blemishes of the Italian pastorals, which are otherwise beau- 
tiful. When Aminta, in Tasso, is disentangling his mistress's hair from 
the tree to which a savage had bound it, he is represented as saying, 
*' Cruel tree ! how couidstthou injure that lovely hair which did thee so 
much honour ? thy rugged trunk was not worthy of such lovely knots. 
What advantage have the servants of love, if those precious chains are 
common to them, and to the trees ?"t Such strained sentiments as these 
ill benefit the woods. Rural personages are supposed to speak the lan- 
guage of plain sense, and natural feelings. When they describe or re- 
late, they do it with simplicity, and naturally allude to rural circumstan- 
ces ; as in these beautiful lines of one of Virgil's eclogues. 

Sepibus in nostris parvam te roscida mala 

(Dux ego vester eram) vidi cum matre legentcm : 

Alter ab undecimo turn me jam ceperat annus, 

* Mid shades of thickest beech he pin'd alone, 

To the wild woods and mountains made his moan : 

Still day by day, in incoherent strains, 

'Twas all he could, despairing told his pains. Wartow. 

f Gia di nodo si bei non era degno 
Cosi rovido tronco ; or che vantaggio 
Ulnano i servi d' amor, se lor commune 
E'con le piante il pretioso laccio ? 
Pianta crudel ! potesti quel bei crine 
Offender, tu, ch'a te seo tanto onore ? Atto lit. Sc, I, 



32& PASTORAL POETRY. [LECT. XXXlX 

Jam fragiles poteram a terra contingere ramos. 
Ut vidi, ut perii, ut me malus abstulit error.* 

In another passage, he makes a shepherdess throw an apple at her 
lover : 

Turn fugit ad salices, ct se cupit ante videri.t 

This is naive, as the French express it, and perfectly suited to pasto- 
ral manners. Mr. Pope wanted to imitate this passage, and, as he 
thought to improve upon it. He does it thus : 

The sprightly Sylvia trips along the green, 
She runs ; but hopes she does not run unseen ; 
AVhile a kind glance at her pursuer flies, 
How much at variance are her feet and eyes ! 

This falls far short of Virgil ; the natural and pleasing simplicity of 
the description is destroyed, by the quaint and affected turn in the last 
line : " How much at variance are her feet and eyes." 

Supposing the poet to have formed correct ideas concerning his pasto- 
ral characters and personages : the next inquiry is, about what is he 
to employ them ? and what are to be the subjects of his eclogues ? For 
it is not enough, that he gives us shepherds discoursing together. 
Every good poem, of every kind, ought to have a subject which should, 
in some way, interest us. Now here, I apprehend, lies the chief diffi- 
culty of pastoral writing. The active scenes of country life either are, 
or to most describers appear to be, too barren of incidents. The state 
of a shepherd, or a person occupied in rural employments only, is ex- 
posed to few of those accidents and revolutions which render his situ- 
ation interesting, or produce curiosity or surprise. The tenor of his 
life is uniform. His ambition is conceived to be without policy, and his 
love without intrigue. Hence it is, that, of all poems, the most meagre 
commonly in the subject, and the least diversified in the strain, is the 
pastoral. From the first lines, we can, generally, guess at all that is 
to follow. It is either a shepherd who sits down solitary by a brook, 
to lament the absence or cruelty of his mistress, and to tell us how 
the trees wither, and the flowers droop, now that she is gone ; or we have 
two shepherds who challenge one another to sing, rehearsing alternate 
verses, which have little either of meaning or subject, till the judge 
rewards one with a studded crook, and another with a beechen bowl. 
To the frequent repetition of common-place topics, of this sort, which 
have been thrummed over by all eclogue writers since the days of The- 
ocritus and Virgil, is owing much of that insipidity which prevails in pas- 
toral compositions. 

I much question, however, whether this insipidity be not owing to the 
fault of the poets, and to their barren and slavish imitation of the ancient 

* Once with your mother to our fields you came 
For dewy apples ; thence I date my flame ; 
The choicest fruit 1 pointed to your view, 
Though young, my raptur'd soul was fix'donyou ; 
The boughs I just could reach with little arms ; 
But then, even then, could feel thy powerful charms. 
O, how I gaz'd, in pleasing transport tost : 
How glow'd my heart in sweet delusion lost ! Wartox- 

+ My Phillis me with pelted apples plies ; 
Then, tripping to the wood, the wan Urn hies, 
And wishes to he seen before she flies. Dryl>l> 



LECT. XXXIX.j PASTORAL POE'JKV 3^3 

pastoral topics, rather than to the confined nature of the subject. For 
why may not pastoral poetry take a wider range ? Human nature and 
human passions, are much the same in every rank oflife ; and wherever 
these passions operate on objects that are within the rural sphere, there 
may be a proper subject for pastoral. One indeed would choose to re- 
move from this sort of composition the operations of violent and direful 
passions, and to present such only as are consistent with innocence, sim- 
plicity, and virtue. But under this limitation, there will still be abundant 
scope for a careful observer of nature to exert his genius. The various 
adventures which give occasion to those engaged in country life to display 
their disposition and temper ; the scenes of domestic felicity Or disquiet ; 
the attachment of friends and of brothers ; the rivalshipand competitions 
of lovers : the unexpected successes or misfortunes of families, might 
give occasion to many a pleasing and tender incident ; and were more of 
the narrative and sentimental intermixed with the descriptive in this 
kind of poetry, it would become much more interesting than it now 
generally is, to the bulk of readers.* 

The two great fathers of pastoral poetry are Theocritus and VirgiL 
Theocritus was a Sicilian ; and as he has laid the scene of his eclogues 
in his own country, Sicily became ever afterward a sort or consecrated 
ground for pastoral poetry. His Idyllia, as he has entitled them, are not 
all of equal merit ; nor indeed are they ail postorals ; but some of them 
poems of a quite different nature. In such, however, as are properly 
pastorals, there are many and great beauties. He is distinguished for the 
simplicity of his sentiments ; for the great sweetness and harmony of his 
numbers, and for the richness of his scenery and description. He is the. 
original, of which Virgil is the imitator. For most of Virgil's highest 
beauties in his eclogues are copied from Theocritus ; in many places he 
has done nothing more than translate him. He must be allowed, how- 
ever, to have imitated him with great judgment, and in some respects 
to have improved upon him. For Theocritus, it cannot be denied, 
descends sometimes into ideas that are gross and mean, and makes his 
shepherds abusive and immodest ; whereas Virgil is free from offensive 
rusticity, and at the same time preserves the character of pastoral 
simplicity. The same distinction obtains between Theocritus and Virgil* 
as between many other of the Greek and Roman writers. The Greek 
led the way, followed nature more closely, and showed more original 
genius. The Roman discovered more of the polish and correctness of 
art. We have a few remains of other two Greek poets in the pastoral style, 
Moschus and Bion, which have very considerable merit ; and if they 
want the simplicity of Theocritus, excel him in tenderness and delicacy. 
• The modern writers of pastorals have, generally, contented themselves 
with copying, or imitating the descriptions and sentiments of the ancient 
poets. Sannazarius, indeed, a famous Latin poet, in the age of Leo Xi 
attempted a bold innovation. He composed Piscatory Eclogues, 
changing the scene from woods to the sea, and from the life of shepherds' 
to that of fishermen. But the innovation was so unhappy, that he hag 
gained no followers. For the life of fishermen is, obviously, much more 
hard and toilsome than that of shepherds^ and presents to the fancy much 
less agreeable images. Flocks, and trees, and flowers, are objects of 

* The above observations on the barrenness of the common eclogues were written 
before any translation from the German had made us acquainted in this country with 
Gesner's Idylls, in which the ideas that had occurred to me for the improvement of 
fttstoral poetry, are fully realized. 

D'dd 



394 PASTORAL POETRY. [LECT. XXXIX, 

greater beauty, and more generally relished by men, than fishes and 
marine productions. Of all the moderns, M. Gesner, a poet of Switzer- 
land, has been the most successful in his pastoral compositions. He has 
introduced into his Idylls (as he entitles them) many new ideas. His 
rural scenery is often striking, and his descriptions are lively. He pre- 
sents pastoral life to us, with all the embellishments of which it is suscep- 
tible ; but without any excess of refinement. What forms the chief 
merit of this poet is, that he writes to the heart ; and has enriched the 
subject of his Idylls with incidents which give rise to much tender senti- 
ment. Scenes of domestic felicity are beautifully painted. The mutual 
affection of husbands and wives, of parents and children, of brothers and 
sisters, as well as of lovers, are displayed in a pleasing and touching man- 
ner. From not understanding the language in which M. Gesner writes. 
I can be no judge of the poetry of his style ; but, in the subject and con- 
duct of his pastorals, he appears to me to have outdone all the moderns. 

Neither Mr. Pope's nor Mr. Philips's pastorals do any great honour 
to the English poetry. Mr. Pope's were composed in his youth ; which 
may be an apology for other faults, but cannot well excuse the barren- 
ness that appears in them. They are written in remarkably smooth 
and flowing numbers : and this is their chief merit ; for there is scarcely 
any thought in them that can be called his own ; scarcely any descrip- 
tion, or any image of nature, which has the marks of being original, or 
copied from nature herself; but a repetition of the common images that 
are to be found in Virgil, and in all poets who write of rural themes, 
Philips attempted to be more simple and natural than Pope ; but he 
wanted genius to support his attempt, or to write agreeably. He, too, 
runs on the common and beaten topics ; and endeavouring to be simple, 
lie becomes flat and insipid. There was no small competition between 
these two authors, at the time when their pastorals were published * 
Id some papers of the Guardian, great partiality was shown to Philips, 
and high praise bestowed upon him. Mr. Pope, resenting this prefer- 
ence, under a feigned name, procured a paper to be inserted in the 
Guardian, wherein he seemingly carries on the plan of extolling Philips ; 
but in realit}' satirizes him most severely with ironical praises ; and in 
an artful covered manner, gives the palm to himself.* About the same 
time, Mr. Gay published his Shepherd's Week, in six pastorals, which 
are designed to ridicule that sort of simplicity which Philips and his 
partisans extolled, and are, indeed, an ingenious burlesque of pastoral 
writing, when it rises no higher than the manners of modern clowns and 
rustics. Mr. Shenstone's pastoral ballad, in four parts, may justly be 
reckoned, I think, one of the most elegant poems of this kind, which we 
have in English. 

1 have not yet mentioned one form in which pastoral writing has 
appeared in later ages, that is, when extended into a play, or regular 
drama, where plot, characters, and passions, are joined with the sim- 
plicity and innocence of rural manners. This is the chief improvement 
which the moderns have made on this species of composition ; and of 
this nature, we have two Italian pieces which are much celebrated. 
Guarini's Pastor Fido, and Tasso's Aminta. Both of these possess great 
beauties, and are entitled to the reputation they have gained. To the 
latter,, the preference seems due, as being less intricate in the plot and 
conduct, and less strained and affected in the sentiments ; and though 

See Guardian. No. 4<' _• 



V.ECT. XXXIX] PASTORAL POETRY 39$ 

not wholly free from Italian refinement (of which I already gave one 
instance, the worst, indeed, that occurs in all the poem) it is, on the 
whole, a performance of high merit. The strain of the poetry is gentle 
and pleasing; and the Italian language contributes to add much of that 
softness, which is peculiarly suited to pastoral.* 

* It may be proper to take notice here, that the charge against Tasso for his points 
and conceits, has sometimes been carried too far. Mr. Addison, for instance, in a 
paper of the Guardian, censuring his Aminta, gives this example, " That Sylvia enters 
adorned with a garland of flowers, and after viewing herself in a fountain, breaks out 
in a speech to the flow r ers on her head, and tells them, that she did not wear them to 
adorn herself, but to make them ashamed." u Whoever can bear this," he adds, " may 
be assured, that he has no taste for pastoral." Guard. No. 38. But Tasso's Sylvia, in 
truth, makes no such ridiculous figure, and we are obliged to suspect that Mr. Addison 
bad not read the Aminta. Daphne, a companion of Sylvia, appears in conversation 
with Thyrsis, the confidant of Aminta, Sylvia's lover, and in order to show him that 
Sylvia was not so simple, or insensible to her own charms, as she affected to be, gives 
him this instance ; that she had caught her one day adjusting her dress by a fountain, 
and applying now one flower, and now another to her neck; and after comparing 
their colours with her own, she broke into a smile, as if she had seemed to say, I will- 
wear you, not for my ornaments, but to show how much you yield to me , and when 
caught thus admiring herself, she threw away her flowers, and blushed for shame. — 
This description of the vanity of a rural coquette, is no more than what is natural, 
and very different from what the author of the Guardian represents it. 

This censure on Tasso was not originally Mr. Addison's. Bouhours. in his MavA&'e 
de bienpenser dans lesouvrages d' esprit, appears to have been the first who gave this 
misrepresentation of Sylvia's speech, and founded a criticism on it. Fontenelie, in 
his Discourse on Pastoral Poetry, followed him in this criticism. Mr. Addison ; or 
whoever was the author of that paper in the Guardian, copied from them both. Mr. 
Warton, in the prefatory discourse to his translation of Virgil's Eclogues, repeats the 
observation. Sylvia's speech to the flowers, with which she was adorned, is always 
quoted as a flagrant instance of the false taste of the Italian poets. Whereas, Tasso 
gives us no such speech of Sylvia's, but only informs us of what her companion sup- 
posed her to be thinking, or saying to herself, when she was privately admiring 
her own beauty. After charging so many eminent critics, for having fallen into this 
strange inaccuracy, from copying one another, without looking into the author 
3 rvhom they censure, it is necessary for me to insert the passage which has occa- 
sioned this remark. Daphne speaks thus to Thyrsis : 

Hora per dirti il ver, non mi resolvo 
Si Silvia e semplieetta, come pare 
A le parole, a gli atti. Ilier vidi un segno 
Che me ne mette in dubbio. lo la trovai 
La presso la cittade in quei gran prati, 
Ove fra stagni grace un isoletta ; 
Sovra essa un lago limpido e tranquillo. 
Tutta pendente in atto, che parea 
Vegheggiar fe medesma, e'nsieme insieme 
Chieder consiglio a 1'acque, in qua! inaniera 
Dispor dovesse in su la front e i crini, 
E sovra i crini il velo, e sovral velo 
I fior, che tenea in grembo : e spesso spe^so 
Hor prendeva un ligustro, hois una rosa, 
IS Paccostava a! bel candido collo, 
A le guancie vermiglie,e de coloii 
Fea paragone ; e poi, licome lieU 
De la vittoria; lampeggiava un riso 
Che parea che dicesse : io pur vi vinco 
Ni porto voiper ornamento mio, 
Ma porto voi sol per vergogna vostra. 
Perche si veggia quanto mi cedete. 
Ma mentre el!a s'ornava, e vagheggiava 
Rivobi gli oechi a caso, e si fu accorta 
Ch'io di la m'era accorta, e vergognanuo., 
Kizzosi tosto, e i fior lascio cadere ; 
In tanto io piu ridea del suo rossore, 
Ella phi s'arrossid del riso mio. Aminta. Atto II. Sc. 2. 



396 LYRIC POETRY. ;LECT. XXXIX 

I must not omit the mention of another pastoral drama, which will 
bear being brought into comparison with any composition of this kind, in 
any language ; that is, Allan Ramsay's Gentle Shepherd. It is a great 
disadvantage to this beautiful poem, that it is written in the old rustic 
dialect of Scotland, which, in a short time, will probably be entirely 
obsolete, and not intelligible ; and it is a farther disadvantage that it is 
so entirely formed on the rural manners of Scotland, that none but a 
native of that country can thoroughly understand, or relish it. But, 
though subject to these local disadvantages, which confine its reputation 
within narrow limits, it is full of so much natural description, and tender 
sentiment, as would do honour to any poet. The characters are well 
drawn, the incidents affecting ; the scenery and manners lively and just= 
It affords a strong proof, both of the power which nature and simplicity 
possess, to reach the heart in every §ort of writing ; and of the variety 
of pleasing characters and subjects, with which pastoral poetry, when 
properly managed, is capable of being enlivened. 

I proceed next to treat of lyric poetry, or the ode ; a species of po- 
etical composition which possesses much dignity, and in which many 
writers have distinguished themselves, in every age. Its peculiar cha- 
racter is, that it is intended to be sung, or accompanied with music. Its 
designation implies this. Ode is, in Greek, the same with song or hymn ; 
and lyric poetry imports, that the verses are accompanied with a lyre, 
or musical instrument. This distinction was not, at first, peculiar to any 
one species of poetry. For, as I observed in the last Lecture, music and 
poetry were coeval, and were, original!}', always joined together. But 
after their separation took place, after bards had begun to make verse 
compositions, which were to be recited or read, not to be sung, such 
poems as were designed to be still joined with music or song, were, by 
way of distinction, called Odes. 

In the ode, therefore, poetry retains its first and most ancient form ; 
that form, under which the original bards poured forth their enthusiastic 
strains, praised their gods and their heroes, celebrated their victories, 
and lamented their misfortunes. It is from this circumstance, of the 
ode's being supposed to retain its original union with music, that we are 
to deduce the proper idea, and the peculiar qualities of this kind of poetry. 
It is not distinguished from other kinds, by the subjects on which it is 
employed ; for these may be extremely various. I know no distinction 
of subject that belongs to it, except that other poems are often employed 
in the recital of actions, whereas sentiments, of one kind or other, form, 
almost always, the subject of the ode. But it is chiefly the spirit, the 
manner of its execution, that marks and characterizes it. Music and 
song naturally add to the warmth of poetry. They tend to transport, in 
a higher degree, both the person who sings and the persons who hear. 
They justify, therefore, a bolder and more passionate strain, than can be 
supported in simple recitation. On this is formed the peculiar character 
of the ode. Hence, the enthusiasm that belongs to it, and the liberties 
it is allowed to take, beyond any other species of poetry. Hence, that 
neglect of regularity, those digressions, and that disorder which it is 
supposed to admit ; and which, indeed, most lyric poets have not failed 
sufliciently to exemplify in their practice. 

The effects of music upon the mind are chiefly two : to raise it above 
its ordinary state, and rill it with high enthusiastic emotions ; or to soothe, 
find melt it into the gentle pleasurable feelings. Hence, the one may 



i.ECT. XXXIX.] LYRIC POETRY. 397 

either aspire to the former character of the sublime and noble, or it may 
descend to the latter of the pleasant and the gay ; and between these, 
there is also a middle region of the mild and temperate emotions, 
which the ode may often occupy to advantage. 

All odes may be comprised under four denominations. First, sacred 
odes ; hymns addressed to God, or composed on religious subjects. Of 
this nature are the Psalms of David, which exhibit to us this species of 
lyric poetry, in its highest degree of perfection. Secondly, heroic odes, 
which are employed in the praise of heroes, and in the celebration of 
martial exploits and great actions. Of this kind are all Pindar's odes, 
and some few of Horace's. These two kinds ought to have sublimity 
and elevation for their reigning character. 

Thirdly, moral and philosophical odes, where the sentiments are chief- 
ly inspired by virtue, friendship, and humanity. Of this kind, are many 
of Horace's odes, and several of our best modern lyric productions ; and 
here the ode possesses that middle region, which, as I observed, it some- 
times occupies. Fourthly, festive and amorous odes, calculated merely 
for pleasure and amusement. Of this nature, are all Anacreon's, some 
that claim to be of the lyric species. The reigning character of these, 
(Ought to be elegance, smoothness, and gayety. 

One of the chief difficulties in composing odes, arises from that enthu- 
siasm which is understood to be a characteristic of lyric poetry. A 
professed ode, even of the moral kind, but more especially if it attempt 
the sublime, is expected to be enlivened and animated, in an uncommon 
degree. Full of this idea, the poet, when he begins to write an ode, if 
he has any real warmth of genius, is apt to deliver himself up to it, 
without control or restraint ; if he has it not, he strains after it, and 
thinks himself bound to assume the appearance of being all fervour, and 
all flame. In either case, he is in great hazard of becoming extravagant. 
The licentiousness of writing without order, method, or connexion, has 
infected the ode more than any other species of poetry. Hence in the 
class of heroic odes, we find so few that one can read with pleasure. 
The poet is out of sight in a moment. He gets up into the clouds ; be- 
comes so abrupt in his transitions ; so eccentric and irregular in his 
motions, and of course so obscure, that we essay in vain to follow him, 
or to partake of his raptures. I do not require, that an ode should be 
as regular in the structure of its parts, as a didactic or an epic poem. 
But still in every composition, there ought to be a subject ; there ought to 
be parts which make up a whole ; there should be a connexion of those 
parts with one another. The transitions from thought to thought may be 
light and. delicate, such as are prompted by a lively fancy ; but still they 
should be such as preserve the connexion of ideas, and show the author 
to be one who thinks, and not one who raves. Whatever authority may 
be pleaded for the incoherence and disorder of lyric poetry, nothing can 
be more certain, than that any composition which is so irregular in its 
method, as to become obscure to the bulk of readers, is so much worse 
upon that account.* 

The extravagant liberty which several of the modern lyric writers 
assume to themselves in their versification increases the disorder of 

* " La pi u part des ceux qui parlent de 1'entbusiasme ae l'ode, en parlent comme 
s'ils etoient aux-raetnes dans le trouble qu'its veulcnt dcfinir. Ce ne sont que grands 



39S -LYRIC POETRY. [LECT. XXXIX. 

this species of poetry. They prolong their periods to such a degree, 
they wander through so many different measures, and employ such u 
variety of long and short lines, corresponding'^in rhyme at so great a dis- 
tance from each other, that all sense of melody is utterly lost. Whereas 
lyric composition ought, beyond every other species of poetry, to 
pay attention to melody and beauty of sound ; and the versification of 
those odes may be justly accounted the best, which renders the harmo- 
ny of the measure most sensible to every common ear. 

Pindar, the great father of lyric poetry, has been the occasion of 
leading his imitators into some of the defects I have now mentioned. 
His genius was sublime ; his expressions are beautiful and happy ; his 
descriptions picturesque. But finding it a very barren subject to sing 
the praises of those who had gained the prize in the public games, he 
is perpetually digressive, and fills up his poems with fables of the gods 
and heroes, that have little connexion either with his subject, or with 
one another. The ancients admired him greatly ; but as many of the 
histories of particular families and cities, to which he alludes, are now 
unknown to us, he is so obscure, partly from his subjects, and partly 
from his rapid, abrupt manner of treating them, that, notwithstanding the 
beauty of his expression, our pleasure in reading him is much diminish- 
ed. One would imagine, that many of his modern imitators thought the 
best way to catch his spirit, was to imitate his disorder and obscurity. 
In several of the choruses of Euripides and Sophocles, we have the 
same kind of lyric poetry as in Pindar, carried on with more clearness 
and connexion, and at the same time, with much sublimity. 

Of all the writers of odes, ancient or modern, there is none that 
in point of correctness, harmony, and happy expression, can vie with 
Horace. He has descended from the Pindaric rapture to a more mode- 
rate degree of elevation : and joins connected thought, and good sense, 
with the highest beauties of poetry. He does not often aspire beyond 
that middle region, which I mentioned as belonging to the ode ; and 
those odes, in which he attempts the sublime, are perhaps not always 
his best.* The peculiar character, in which he excels, is grace and 
elegance ; and in this style of composition, no poet has ever attained to 
a greater perfection than Horace. No poet supports a moral sentiment 

mots de fureur divine, de transports de Tame, de mouvemens, de lumieres, qui mis 
bout-a-bout dans des phrases pompeuses, ne produisent pourtant aucune idee dis- 
tincte. Si on les en croit, I'essence de l'enthusiasme est de ne pouvoir elre compris 
que par ies esprits du premiere ordre, k la tete desquels iis se supposent, et dont ils 
excluent tous ceux que osent ne les pas etendre. — Le beau desordre de l'ode est ua 
effet de l'art ; mais ilfaut prendre garde de donner trop d'etendue a ce ternie. On 
autoriseroit par la tous les 6carts imaginables. Un poete n'auroit plus qu'a exprimer 
avec force toutes les pensees qui lui viendroient successivement ; il se tiendroit 
dispense d'en examiner le rapport, et de se faire un plan, dont toutes les parties se 
pretassent mutuellement des beautes. II n'y auroitni commencement, ni milieu, ni 
fin, dans son ouvrage ; et cependant l'auteur se croiroit d'autantplus sublime, qu'il 
seroit moins raisonable. Mais qui produiroit une pareille composition dans l'esprit 
du lecteur ? Elle ne laisseroit qu'un etourdissement, cause par la magnificence et 
Tharmonie des paroles-, sans y faire naitre que des idees confuses, qui cbasseroient 
1'une ou l'autre, au lieu de concourir ensemble a fixer et a eclairer l'esprit.'' 
Oeuvres de M. De la Motte, tome 1. Discours sur l'Ode. 

* There is no ode whatever of Horace's, without great beauties. But though I 
may be singular in my opinion, I cannot help thinking that in some of those odes 
which have been much admired for sublimity, (such as Ode iv. Lib. 4. " Qualem 
ministrum fulminis alitem," &x.) there appears somewhat of a strained and forced 
effort to be lofty. The genius of this amiable poet shows itself, according to my 
judgment, to greater advantage in themes of a more temperate kind. 



kECT.XL.] DIDACTIC POETRY, 399 

with more dignity, touches a gay one more happily, or possesses the 
art of trifling more agreeably, when he choses to trifle. His language 
is so fortunate, that with a single word or epithet, he often conveys a 
whole description to the fancy. Hence he ever has been, and ever will 
continue to be, a favourite author with all persons of taste. 

Among the Latin poets of later ages, there have been many imitators 
of Horace. One of the most distinguished is Casimir, a Polish poet 
of the last century, who wrote four books of odes. In graceful ease 
of expression he is far inferior to the Roman. He oftener affects the 
sublime ; and in the attempt, like other lyric writers, frequently becomes 
harsh and unnatural. But, on several occasions, he discovers a consi- 
derable degree of original genius, and poetical fire. Buchanan, in some 
of his lyric compositions, is very elegant and classical. 

Among the French, the odes of Jean Baptiste Rousseau, have been 
much and justly celebrated. They possess great beauty, both of sen- 
timent and expression. They are animated, without being rhapsodical ; 
and are not inferior to any poetical productions in the French language. 

In our own language we have several lyric compositions of consider- 
able merit. Dryden's ode on St. Cecilia is well known. Mr. Gray is 
distinguished in some of his odes, both for tenderness and sublimity ; 
and in Dodsley's Miscellanies, several very beautiful lyric poems are to 
be found. As to professed Pindaric odes, they are, with a few excep- 
tions, so incoherent, as seldom to be intelligible. Cowley, at all times 
harsh, is doubly so in his Pindaric compositions. In his Anacreonic 
odes, he is much happier. They are smooth and elegant ; and indeed 
the most agreeable and the most perfect in their kind, of all Mr. Cow- 
ley's poems. 



LECTURE XL. 



DIDACTIC POETRY— DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 

Having treated of pastoral and lyric poetry, I proceed next to didac- 
tic poetry ; under which is included a numorous class of writings. The 
ultimate end of all poetry, indeed, of every composition, should be to 
make some useful impression on the mind. This useful impression is 
most commonly made in poetry, by indirect methods ; as by fable, by 
narration, by representation of characters ; but didactic poetry openly 
professes its intention of conveying knowledge and instruction. It dif- 
fers, therefore, in the form only, not in the scope and substance, from 
a philosophical, a moral, or a critical treatise in prose. At the same 
time, by means of its form, it has several advantages over prose instruc- 
tion. By the charm of versification and numbers, it renders instruction 
more agreeable ; by the descriptions, episodes, and other embellish- 
ments, which it may interweave, it detains, and engages the fancy ; it 
fixes also useful circumstances more deeply in the memory. Hence, it 
is afield, wherein a poet may gain great honour, may display both much 
genius, and much knowledge and judgment. 



400 DIDACTIC POETRY. [LECT. XL, 

It may be executed in different manners. The poet may choo:_ 
some instructive subj ^ • I he may treat it regularly, and in form ; 
or, without intending a great or regular work, he may only inveigh 
against particular vices, or make some moral observations on human life 
and characters, as is commonly done in satires and epistles. All these 
come under the denomination of didactic poetry. 

The highest species of it, is a regular treatise on some philosophical, 
grave, or useful subject. Of this nature we have several, both ancient 
and modern, of great merit and character : such as Lucretius's six books 
De Rerum Natura, Virgil's Georgics, Pope's Essay on Criticism, Aken- 
side's Pleasures of the Imagination, Armstrong on Health, Horace's, 
Vida's, and Boileau's Art of Poetry. 

In all such works, as instruction is the professed object, the funda- 
mental merit consists in sound thought, just principles, clear and apt 
illustrations. The poet must instruct ; but he must study, at the same 
time, to enliven his instructions, by the introduction of such figures, 
and such circumstances, as may amuse the imagination, may conceal the 
dryness of his subject, and embellish it with poetical painting. Virgil, 
in his Georgics, presents us here with a perfect model. He has the art 
of raising and beautifying the most trivial circumstances in rural life. 
When he is going to say, that the labour of the country must begin in 
spring, he expresses himself thus : 

Vere novo, gelidus canis cum montibus humor 
Liquitur, et Zephyro putris se glebaresolvit ; 
Depresso incipiat jam turn mibi Taurus aratro 
Ingemere,et sulco attritus splendescere vomer* 

Instead of telling his husbandman in plain language, that kis crops will 
fail through bad management, his language is, 

Heu magnum alterius frustra spectabis acervum. 
Concussaque famem insylvis solabere quercu.t 

Instead of ordering him to water his grounds, he presents us with a 
beautiful landscape : 

Ecce supercilie clivosi tramitis undam 
Elicit; ilia cadens, raucum per laevia murmur 
Saxa ciet ; scatebrisque arentia temperat arva4 

In all didactic works, method and order are essentially requisite ; not 
£o strict and formal as in a prose treatise ; yet such as may exhibit clears 

* While yet the spring is young, while earth unbinds 
Her frozen bosom to the western winds ; 
While mountain snows dissolve against the sun, 
And streams yet new from precipices run ; 
Ev'n in this early dawning of the year, 
Produce the plough and yoke the sturdy steer, 
And goad him till he groans beneath his toil, 
Till the bright share is buried in the soil. Dryden 

i On other crops you may with envy look, 
And shake for food the long abandoned oak. Dryden. 

| Behold when burning suns, or Syrius' beams 
Strike fiercely on the field and withering stems, 
Down from the summit of the neighbouring hills, 
O'er the smooth stones he calls the bubbling rills : 
Soon as he clears whate'er their passage stay'd, 
And marks their future current with his spade, 
Before him scattering they prevent his pains, 
And roll with hollow murmurs o'er the plain? Warto* 



1ECT. XL] DIDACTIC POETRY. 40 j 

ly to the reader a connected train of instruction.— Of the didactic poets, 
whom I before mentioned, Horace, in his Art of Poetry, is the one most 
censured for want of method. Indeed, if Horace be deficient in any 
thing throughout many of his writings, it is in this, of not being suffi- 
ciently attentive to juncture and connexion of parts. He writes always 
with ease and gracefulness ; but often in a manner somewhat loose and 
rambling. There is, however, in that work much good sense, and ex- 
cellent criticism ; and, if it be considered as intended for the regulation 
of the Roman drama, which seems to have been the author's chief pur- 
pose, it will be found to be a more complete and regular treatise, than 
under the common notion, of its being a system of the whole poetical art 

With regard to episodes and embellishments, great liberty is allowed 
to writers of didactic poetry. We soon tire of a continued series of 
instructions, especially in a poetical work, where we look for entertain- 
ment. The great art of rendering a didactic poem interesting, is to 
relieve and amuse the reader, by connecting some agreeable episodes 
with the principal subject. These are always the parts of the work 
which are best known, and which contribute most to support the repu- 
tation of the poet. The principal beauties of Virgil's Georgics lie in 
digressions of this kind, in which the author has exerted all the force 
of his genius ; such as the prodigies that attended the death of Julius 
Caesar, the praises of Italy, the happiness of a country life, the fable 
of Aristeus, and the moving tale of Orpheus and Eurydice. In like manner, 
the favourite passages in Lucretius's work, and which alone could ren- 
der such a dry and abstract subject tolerable in poetry, are the digres- 
sions on the evils of superstition, the praise of Epicurus and his phi- 
losophy, the description of the plague, and several other incidental 
illustrations, which are remarkably elegant, and adorned with a sweet- 
ness and harmony of versification peculiar to that poet. There is, 
indeed, nothing in poetry, so entertaining or descriptive, but what a 
didactic writer of genius may be allowed to introduce in some part of 
his work ; provided always, that such episodes arise naturally from the 
main subject ; that they be not disproportioned in length to it ; and that 
the author know how to descend with propriety to the plain, as well as 
how to rise to the bold and figured style. 

Much art may be shown by a didactic poet in connecting his episodes 
happily with his subject. Virgil is also distinguished for his address in 
this point. After seeming to have left his husbandmen, he again returns 
to them very naturally by laying hold of some rural circumstance, to 
terminate his digression. Thus, having spoken of the battle of Pharsa- 
lia, he subjoins immediately, with much art, 

Scilicet et tempus veniet, cum finibus illis, 
Agricolo, incurve terram molitus aratro. 
Exesa inveniet scabra rubigine pila : 
Aut gravibus rastris galeas pulsabit inanes, 
Grandiaque effossis mirabitur ossa sepulchris.* 

In English, Dr. Akenside has attempted the most rich and poetical 
form of didactic writing in his Pleasures of the Imagination ; and though , 

* Then, after length of time, the lab'ring swains 
Who turn the turf of these unhappy plains, 
Shall rusty arms from the plough'd furrows take. 
And over empty helmets pass the rake ; 
Amus'd at antique titles on the stones, 

And mighty relics of gigantic bone? I'ryden, 

E e e 



402 DIDACTIC POETRY [LECT. XL 

in the execution of the whole, he is not equal, he has, in several parts, 
succeeded happily, and displayed much genius. Dr. Armstrong, in his 
Art of Preserving Health, has not aimed at so high a strain as the other. 
But he is more equal ; and maintains throughout a chaste and correct 
elegance. 

Satires and epistles naturally run into a more familiar style, than solemn 
philosophical poetry. As the manners and characters, which occur in 
ordinary life, are their subject, they require being treated with somewhat 
of the ease and freedom of conversation, and hence it is commonly the 
" musa pedestris," which reigns in such compositions. 

Satire, in its first state among the Romans, had a form different from 
what it afterward assumed. Its origin is obscure, and has given occasion 
to altercation among critics. It seems to have been at first a relic of 
the ancient comedy, written partly in prose, partly in verse, and abound- 
ing with scurrility. Ennius and Luciiius corrected its grossness ; and 
at last, Horace brought it into that form, which now gives the denomi- 
nation to satirical writing. Reformation of manners, is the end which 
it professes to have in view ; and in order to this end, it assumes the 
liberty of boldly censuring vice and vicious characters. It has been 
carried on in three different manners, by the three great ancient satir- 
ists, Horace, Juvenal, and Persius. Horace's style has not much eleva- 
tion. He entitles his satire " Sermones," and seems not to have in- 
tended rising much higher than prose put into numbers. His manner is 
easy and graceful. They are rather the follies and weakness of man- 
kind, than their enormous vices, which he chooses for the object ©f his 
satire. He reproves with a smiling aspect ; and while he moralizes like 
a sound philosopher, discovers, at the same time, the politeness of a 
courtier. Juvenal is much more serious and declamatory. He has 
more strength and fire, and more elevation of style, than Horace ; but 
is greatly inferior to him in gracefulness and ease. His satire is more 
zealous, more sharp and pointed, as being generally directed against 
more flagitious characters. As Scaliger says of him, " ardet, instat, 
jugulat;" whereas Horace's character is, " admissus circum praecordia 
ludit." Persius has a greater resemblance of the force and fire of 
Juvenal, than of the politeness of Horace. He is distinguished for sen- 
timents of noble and sublime morality. He is a nervous and lively 
writer ; but withal, often harsh and obscure. 

Poetical epistles, when employed on moral or critical subjects, seldom 
rise into a higher strain of poetry than satires. In the form of an epis- 
tle, indeed, many other subjects may be handled, and either love poetry, 
or elegiac, may be carried on ; as in Ovid's Epistolae Herodium, and 
his Epistolae de Ponto. Such works as these are designed to be merely 
sentimental ; and as their merit consists in being proper expressions 
of the passion or sentiment which forms the subject, they may assume 
any tone of poetry that is suited to it. But didactic epistles, of which 
I now speak, seldom admit of much elevation. They are commonly 
intended as observations on authors, or on life and characters ; in de- 
livering which, the poet does not purpose to compose a formal treatise, 
or to confine himself strictly to regular method ; but gives scope 
to his genius on some particular theme, which, at the time, has 
prompted him to write. In all didactic poetry of this kind, it is an 
important rule, " quicquid precipes, esto brevis." Much of the grace, 
both of satirical and epistolary writing, consists in a spirited conciseness, 



IECT, XL.] DIDACTIC POETRY. 443. 

This gives to such composition an edge and a liveliness, which strike the 
fancy, and keep attention awake. Much of their merit depends also on 
just and happy representations of characters. As they are not supported 
by those high beauties of descriptive and poetical language which adorn 
other compositions, we expect, in return, to be entertained with lively 
paintings of men and manners, which are always pleasing ; and in these, a 
certain sprightliness and turn of wit finds its proper place. The higher 
species of poetry seldom admit it ; but here it is seasonable and beautiful. 
In all these respects, Mr. Pope's Ethical Epistles deserve to be men- 
tioned with signal honour, as a model, next to perfect, of this kind of 
poetry. Here, perhaps, the strength of his genius appeared. In the 
more sublime parts of poetry, he is not so distinguished. In the enthu- 
siasm, the fire, the force and copiousness of poetic genius, Dryden, 
though a much less correct writer, appears to have been superior to him. 
One can scarce think that he was capable of epic or tragic poetry ; but 
within a certain limited region, he has been outdone by no poet. His 
translation of the Iliad will remain a lasting monument to his honour, as 
the most elegant and highly finished translation, that, perhaps, ever was 
given of any poetical work. That he was not incapable of tender 
poetry, appears from the epistle of Eloisa to Abelard, and from the verses 
to the memory of an unfortunate lady, which are almost his only senti- 
mental productions ; and which indeed are excellent in their kind. But 
the qualities for which he is chiefly distinguished, are, judgment and wit, 
with a concise and happy expression, and a melodious versification. Few 
poets ever had more wit, and at the same time more judgment, to direct 
the proper employment of that wit. This renders his Rape of the Lock 
the greatest masterpiece that perhaps ever was composed, in the gay 
and sprightly style ; and in his serious works, such as his Essay on Man, 
and his Ethic Epistles, his wit just discovers itself as much, as to give a 
proper seasoning to grave reflections. His imitations of Horace are so 
peculiarly happy, that one is at a loss, whether most to admire the original 
or the copy ; and they are among the few imitations extant, that have all 
the grace and ease of an original. His paintings of characters are na- 
tural and lively in a high degree ; and never was any writer so happy 
in that concise spirited style, which gives animation to satires and epistles. 
We are never so sensible of the good effects of rhyme in English verse, 
as in reading these parts of his works. We see it adding to the style, an 
elevation which otherwise it could not have possessed ; while at the same 
time he manages it so artfully, that it never appears in the least to encumber 
him ; but, on the contrary, serves to increase the liveliness of his manner. 
He tells us himself, that he could express moral observations more con- 
cisely, and therefore more forcibly, in rhyme, than he could do in prose. 
Among moral and didactic poets, Dr. Young is of too great eminence to 
be passed over without notice. In all his works the marks of strong 
genius appear. His Universal Passion possesses the full merit of that 
animated conciseness of style, and lively description of characters, which 
I mentioned as particularly requisite in satirical and didactic compositions. 
Though his wit may often be thought too sparkling, and his sentences 
too pointed, yet the vivacity of his fancy is so great, as to entertain every 
reader. In his Night Thoughts, there is much energy of expression : in 
the three first, there are several pathetic passages ; and scattered through 
them all, happy images and allusions, as well as pious reflections, occur. 
But the sentiments are frequently over-strained and turgid ; and the style 



404 - DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. [LECT. XL. 

is too harsh and obscure to be pleasing. Among French authors, Boileau 
has undoubtedly much merit in didactic poetry. Their later critics are 
unwilling to allow him any great share of original genius, or poetic fire.* 
But his Art of Poetry, his Satires and Epistles, must ever be esteemed 
eminent, not only for solid and judicious thought, but for correct and ele- 
gant poetical expression, and fortunate imitation of the ancients. 

From didactic, I proceed next to treat of descriptive poetry, where 
the highest exertions of genius may be displayed. By descriptive poetry 
I do not mean any one particular species or form of composition. There 
are few compositions of any length, that can be called purely descriptive, 
or wherein the poet proposes to himself no other object, but merely to 
describe, without employing narration, action, or moral sentiment, as the 
groundwork of his piece. Description is generally introduced as an 
embellishment, rather than made the subject of a regular work. But 
though it seldom forms a separate species of writing, yet into every 
species of poetical composition, pastoral, lyric, didactic, epic, and dra- 
matic, it both enters and possesses in each of them a very considerable 
place ; so that in treating of poetry, it demands no small attention. 

Description is the great test of a poet's imagination ; and always 
distinguishes an original from a second-rate genius. To a writer of the 
inferior class, nature, when at any time he attempts to describe it, appears 
exhausted by those who have gone before him in the same track. He 
sees nothing new, or peculiar, in the object which he would paint ; his 
conceptions of it are loose and vague ; and his expressions, of course, 
feeble and general. He gives us words rather than ideas ; we meet with 
the language indeed of poetical description, but we apprehend the object 
described very indistinctly. Whereas, a true poet makes us to imagine 
that we see it before our eyes ; he catches the distinguishing features ; 
he gives it the colours of life and reality : he places it in such a light that 
a painter could copy after him. This happy talent is chiefly owing to a 
strong imagination, which first receives a lively impression of the object; 
and then, by employing a proper selection of circumstances in describing 
it, transmits that impression in its full force to the imagination of others. 

In this selection of circumstances lies the great art of picturesque 
description. In the first place, they ought not to be vulgar and common 
ones, such as are apt to pass by without remark ; but, as much as possible 
new and original, which may catch the fancy anddraw the attention. In the 
next place, they ought to be such as particularize the object described, 
and mark it strongly. No description, that rests in generals, can be good. 
For we can conceive nothing clearly in the abstract ; all distinct ideas 
are formed upon particulars. In the third place, all the circumstances 
employed ought to be uniform, and of a piece ; that is, when describing 
a great object, every circumstance brought into view should tend to ag- 
grandize ; or, when describing a gay and pleasant one, should tend to 
beautify, that by this means, the impression may rest upon the imagination 
complete and entire : and lastly, the circumstances in description should 
be expressed with conciseness and with simplicity ; for, when either too 
much exaggerated, or too long dwelt upon and extended, they never fail 
to enfeeble the impression that is designed to be made. Brevity, almost 
always contributes to vivacity. These general rules will be best under- 
stood by illustrations, founded on particular instances. 

s Vid. Poetique Francoise de MarmonteK 



LECT. XL.] DESCRIPTIVE FOETRY' 40i 

Of all professed descriptive compositions, the largest and fullest that I 
am acquainted with, in any language, is Mr. Thomson's Seasons ; a 
work which possesses very uncommon merit. The style, in the midst of 
much splendour and strength, is sometimes harsh, and may be censured 
as deficient in ease and distinctness. But notwithstanding this defect, 
Thomson is a strong and a beautiful describer ; for he had a feeling heart, 
and a warm imagination. He had studied and copied nature with care. 
Enamoured of her beauties, he not only described them properly, but 
felt their impression with strong sensibility. The impression which he 
felt, he transmits to his readers ; and no person of taste can peruse any 
one of his Seasons, without having the ideas and feelings, which belong 
to that season, recalled and rendered present to his mind. Several in- 
stances of most beautiful description might be given from him ; such as, 
the shower in spring, the morning in summer, and the man perishing in 
snow in winter. But, at present, 1 shall produce a passage of another 
kind, to show the power of a single well-chosen circumstance to heighten 
a description. In his summer, relating the effects of heat in the torrid 
zone, he is led to take notice of the pestilence that destroyed the 
English fleet, at Carthagena, under Admiral Vernon ; when he has 
the following lines : 

you j gallant Vernon, saw 

The miserable scene ; you pitying saw 

To infant weakness sunk the warrior's arms ; 

Saw the deep-racking pang ; the ghastly form ; 

The lip pale quiv'ring ; and the beamless eye 

No more with ardour bright ; you heard the groans 

Of agonizing ships from shore to shore ; 

Heard nightly plung'd, amid the sullen waves, 

The frequent corse. L. 1050, 

All the circumstances here are properly chosen, for setting this dismal 
scene in a strong light before our eyes. But what is most striking in the 
picture is the last image. We are conducted through all the scenes of 
distress, till we come to the mortality prevailing in the fleet, which a 
vulgar poet would have described by exaggerated expressions, concern- 
ing the multiplied trophies and victories of death. But, how much 
more is the imagination impressed, by this single circumstance of dead 
bodies thrown overboard every night ; of the constant sound of their 
falling into the waters, and of the Admiral listening to this melancholy 
sound, so often striking his ear! 

Heard nightly plung'd, amid the sullen waves, 
The frequent corse* 

* The eulogium which Dr. Johnson, in his Lives of the Poets, gives of Thomson, is 
high, and, in my opinion, very just : "Asa writer, he is entitled to one praise of 
the highest kind : his mode of thinking, and of expressing his thoughts, is original. 
His blank verse is no more the blank verse of Milton, or of any other poet, than the 
rhymes of Prior are the rhymes of Cowley. His numbers, his pauses, his diction, are 
of his own growth, without transcription, without imitation. He thinks in a peculiar 
train, and he thinks always as a man of genius. He looks round on nature and life, 
with the eye which nature bestows only on a poet ; the eye that distinguishes in every 
thing presented to its view, whatever there is on which imagination can delight to 
be detained ; and with a mind that at once comprehends the vast and attends to the 
minute. The reader of the Seasons wonders that he never saw before what Thomson 
shows him, and that he never yet has felt what Thomson impresses. His descriptions 
of extended scenes, and general effects, bring before us the whole magnificence of 
nature, whether pleasing or dreadful. The gayety of Spring, the splendour of Sum- 
mer, the tranquillity of Autumn, and the horror of Winter, take, in their turn, pos- 
session of the raind. The poet leads us through the appearances of things, as they 



4 0e DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. [LECT. XL, 

Mr. Parnell's Tale of the Hermit is conspicuous throughout the whole 
of it, for beautiful descriptive narration. The manner of the Hermit's 
setting forth to visit the world ; his meeting with a companion, and the 
houses in which they are successively entertained, of the vain man, the 
covetous man, and the good man, are pieces of very fine painting, touched 
with a light and delicate pencil, overcharged with no superfluous colouring 
and conveying to us a lively idea of the objects. But, of all the English 
poems in the descriptive style, the richest and most remarkable are, 
Milton's Allegro and Penseroso. The collection of gay images on the 
one hand, and of melancholy ones on the other, exhibited in these two 
small, but inimitably fine poems, are as exquisite as can be conceived. 
They are, indeed, the storehouse whence many succeeding poets have 
enriched their descriptions of similar subjects ; and they alone are suf- 
ficient for illustrating the observations which I made, concerning the 
proper selection of circumstances in descriptive writing. Take, for in- 
stance, the following passage from the Penseroso : 



-I walk unseen 



On the dry, smooth-shaven green, 

To behold the wandering moon, 

Riding near her highest noon, 

Like one that had been led astray, 

Through the Heaven's wide pathless way. 

And oft as if her head she bow'd, 

Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 

Oft, on a plat of rising ground, 

I hear the far-off curfew sound, 

Over some wide watered shore, 

Swinging slow with solemn roar; 

Or, if the air will not permit, 

Some still removed place will fit, 

Where glowing embers through the room 

Teach light to counterfeit a gloom ; 

Far from all resort of mirth 

Save the cricket on the hearth, 

Or the bellman's drowsy charm, 

To bless the doors from nightly harm \ 

Or let my lamp, at midnight hour, 

Re seen in some high lonely tower, 

Where I may outwatch the Rear 

With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere 

The spirit of Plato to unfold 

What worlds or what vast regions hold 

Th' immortal mind, that hath forsook 

Her mansion in this fleshy nook ; 

And of those daemons that are found 

In fire, air, flood, or under ground. 

Here there are no unmeaning general expressions ; all is particular ; 
all is picturesque ; nothing forced or exaggerated ; but a simple style 
and a collection of strong expressive images, which are all of one class, 
and recall a number of similar ideas of the melancholy kind ; particularly 
the walk by moonlight ; the sound of the curfew bell heard distant ; the 
dying embers in the chamber ; the bellman's call ; and the lamp seen 
at midnight in the high lonely tower. We may observe, too, the 
conciseness of the poet's manner. He does not rest long on one cir- 

are successively varied by the vicissitudes of the year, and imparts to us so much of 
his own enthusiasm that our thoughts expand with his imagery, and kindle with his 
sentiments." The censure which the same eminent critic passes upon Thomson's 
diction, is no less just and well founded, that " it is too exuberant, and may some- 
times be charged with filling the ear more than the mind. 



LECT. XL.j DESCRIPTIVE POETRY, 4^ 

cumstance, or employ a great many words to describe it ; which always 
makes the impression faint and languid ; but placing it in one strong point 
of view, full and clear before the reader, he there leaves it. 

" From his shield and his helmet," says Homer, describing one of his 
heroes in battle, '.' From his shield and his helmet, there sparkled an 
incessant blaze ; like the autumnal star, when it appears in its brightness 
from the waters of the ocean." This is short and lively ; but when it 
comes into Mr. Pope's hand, it evaporates in three pompous lines, each 
of which repeats the same image in different words : 

High on his helm celestial lightnings play, 
His beamy shield emits a living ray ; 
Th' unwearied blaze incessant streams supplies, 
Like the red star that fires th' autumnal skies. 

It is to be observed, in general, that, in describing solemn or great 
objects, the concise manner is, almost always, proper. Descriptions of 
gay and smiling scenes can bear to be more amplified and prolonged ; as 
strength is not the predominant quality expected in these. But where a 
sublime, or a pathetic impression is intended to be made, energy is above 
all things required. The imagination ought then to be seized at once ; 
and it is far more deeply impressed by one strong and ardent image, than 
by the anxious minuteness of laboured illustration. " His face was 
without form, and dark," says Ossian, describing a ghost, " the stars dim 
twinkling through his form ; thrice he sighed over the hero ; and thrice 
the winds of the night roared around." 

It deserves attention too, that in describing inanimate natural objects, 
the poet, in order to enliven his description, ought always to mix living 
beings with them. The scenes of dead and still life are apt to pall upon 
us, if the poet do not suggest sentiments and introduce life and action into 
his description. This is well known to every painter who is a master of 
his art. Seldom has any beautiful landscape been drawn, without some 
human being represented on the canvass, as beholding it, or on some ac- 
count concerned in it : 

Hie gelidi fontes, hie mollia prata Lycori, 
Hie nemus; hie ipso tecum consumerer aevo.* 

The touching part of these fine lines of Virgil's is the last, which sets 
before us the interest of two lovers in this rural scene. A long description 
of the "fontes" the " nemus" and the "prata,' 1 '' in the most poetical 
modern manner, would have been insipid without this stroke, which, in 
a few words, brings home to the heart all the beauties of the place ; " hie 
ipso tecum consumerer asvo." It is a great beauty in Milton's Allegro, 
that it is all alive, and full of persons. 

Every thing, as I before said, in description, should be as marked 
and particular as possible, in order to imprint on the mind a distinct and 
complete image. A hill, a river, or a lake, rises up more conspicuous 
to the fancy, when some particular lake, or river, or hill, is specified, 
than when the terms are left general. Most of the ancient writers have 
been sensible of the advantage which this gives to description. Thus, 
in that beautiful pastoral compositien, the Song of Solomon, the images 

* Here cooling fountains roll through flow'ry meads, 
Here woods, Lycoris, lift their verdant heads, 
Here could I wear my careless life away, 
And in thy arms insensibly decay. Virg. Ecl. X. Wartoj?, 



40S DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. [LECT. XL. 

are commonly particularized by the objects to which they allude. " It 
is the rose of Sharon ; the lily of the valleys ; the flock which feeds on 
Mount Gilead ; the stream which comes from Mount Lebanon, Come 
with me, from Lebanon, my spouse ; look from the top of Amana, from 
the top of Shenir and Hermon, from the lions' dens, from the mountains 
of the leopards," ch. iv. 8. So Horace : 

Quid dedicatum poscit Apollinem 
Vates ? quid orat de patera novum 

Fundens liquorem ? non opimas 
Sardinee segetes feracis ; 
Non sestuosae grata Calabriae 
Armenta ; non aurum aut ebur Indicum } 

Non rura, quae Liris quiet& 
Mordet aqua, taciturnus amnis .* Lib. I. Ode 3L 

Both Homer and Virgil are remarkable for the talent of poetica 
description. In Virgil's second iEneid, where he describes the burning 
and sacking of Troy, the particulars are so well selected and represented, 
that the reader finds himself in the midst of that scene of horror. The 
death of Priam, especially, may be singled out as a masterpiece of 
description. All the circumstances of the aged monarch arraying him- 
self in armour, when he finds the enemy making themselves masters of 
the city ; his meeting with his family, who are taking shelter at an altar 
in the court of the palace, and their placing him in the midst of them ; 
his indignation when he beholds Pyrrhus slaughtering one of his sons ; 
the feeble dart which he throws ; with Pyrrhus's brutal behaviour, and 
his manner of putting the old man to death, are painted in the most 
affecting manner, and with a masterly hand. All Homer's battles, and 
Milton's account, both of paradise and of the infernal regions, furnish 
many beautiful instances of poetical description. Ossian, too, paints 
in strong and lively colours, though he employs few circumstances ; and 
his chief excellency lies in painting to the heart. One of his fullest 
descriptions is the following of the ruins of Balclutha ; I have seen 
the walls of Balclutha, but they were desolate. The fire had resounded 
within the halls ; and the voice of the people is now heard no more. 
The stream of Clutha was removed from its place, by the fall of the 
walls ; the thistle shook there its lonely head ; the moss whistled 
to the wind. The fox looked out at the window ; the rank grass waved 
round his head. Desolate is the dwelling of Moina. Silence is in the 
house of her fathers." Shakspeare cannot be omitted on this occasion, 
as singularly eminent for painting with the pencil of nature. Though 
it be in manners and characters that his chief excellency lies, yet 
his scenery also is often exquisite, and happily described by a single 
stroke ; as in that fine line of the " Merchant of Venice," which con- 

* When at Apollo's hallowed shrine 
The poet hails the power divine, 
And here his first libation pours, 
What is the blessing he implores ? 
He nor desires the swelling grain, 
That yellows o'er Sardinia's plain/ 
Nor the fair herds that lowing feed 
On warm Calabria's flowery mead ; 
Nor ivory of spotless shine ; 
Nor gold forth flaming from the mine , 
Nor the rich fields that Liris laves, 
And eats away with silent waves. Francis 



'LEUT. XI,.] DESCRIPTIVE FOETUS 409 

veys to the fancy as natural and beautiful an image as can possibly be 
exhibited in so few words ? 

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank ! 
Here will we sit, &c. 

Much of the beauty of descriptive poetry depends upon a right choice 
of epithets. Many poets, it must be confessed, are too careless in this 
particular. Epithets are frequently brought in merely to complete the 
verse, or make the rhyme answer ; and hence they are so unmeaning and 
redundant ; expletive words only, which in place of adding anj' thing to 
the description, clog and enervate it. Virgil's " Liquidi fontes," and 
Horace's " Prata canis albicant pruinis," must, I am afraid, be assigned 
to this class : for, to denote by an epithet that water is liquid, or that 
snow is white, is no better than mere tautology. Every epithet should 
either add a new idea to the word which it qualifies, or at least serve to 
raise and heighten its known signification. So in Milton. 

Who shall tempt with wand'ring feet 

The dark, unbottom'd, infinite abyss, 

And through the palpable obscure, find out 

His uncouth way ? or spread his airy flight, 

Upborn with indefatigable wings, 

Over the vast abrupt ? U. jl. 

The epithets employed here plainly add strength to the description, and 
assist the fancy in conceiving it ; — the wandering feet — the unbottomed 
abyss — the palpable obscure — the uncouth way — the indefatigable wing 
— serve to render the images more complete and distinct. But there are 
many general epithets, which though they appear to raise the significa- 
tion of the word to which they are joined, yet leave it so undetermined, 
and are now become so trite and beaten in poetical language as to be 
perfectly insipid. Of this kind are " barbarous discord— hateful envy — • 
mighty chiefs — bloody war — gloomy shades — direful scenes," and a thou- 
sand more of the same kind which we meet with occasionally in good 
poets ; but with which poets of inferior genius abound every where, as 
the great props of their affected sublimity. They give a sort of swell 
to the language, and raise it above the tone of prose ; but they serve 
not in the least to illustrate the object described ; on the contrary, they 
load the style with a languid verbosity. 

Sometimes it is in the power of a poet of genius, by one well-chosen 
epithet, to accomplish a»description, and by means of a single word, to 
paint a whole scene to the fancy. We may remark this effect of an 
epithet in the following fine lines of Milton's Lycidas : 

Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep 

Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas ? 

For neither were ye playing on the steep, 

Where. your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, 

JNor on the shaggy top of Mona high, 

Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream. 

Among these wild scenes, "Deva's wizard stream" is admirably 
imaged ; by this one word presenting to the fancy all the romantic ideas 
of a river flowing through a desolate country, with banks haunted by 
wizards and enchanters. Akin to this is an epithet which Horace gives 
to the river Hydaspes. A good man, says he, stands in need of no arms : 
Sive per Syrtes iter sestuosas, 
Sive facturus per inhospitafero 
F f f 



4| 9 THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS, [LECT. XLI, 

Caucasum ; vel qua? loca fabulosus 
LambiJ Hydaspes.* 

This epithet ' ; fabulosus," one of the commentators on Horace has 
changed into " sabulosus," or sandy ; substituting, by a strange want of 
taste, the common and trivial epithet of the sandy river, in place of that 
beautiful picture which the poet gives us, by calling Hydaspes the 
romantic river, or the scene of adventurers and poetic tales. 

Virgil has employed an epithet with great beauty and propriety, 
when accounting for Deedalus not having engraved the fortune of his son 
Icarus : 

Bis conatus erat - casus effingere in auro, 

Bis patriae cecidere manus.l JEa. VI. 

These instances, and observations, may give some just idea of true 
poetical description. We have reason always to distrust an author's 
descriptive talents, when we find him laborious and turgid, amassing 
commonplace epithets and general expressions, to work up a higher 
conception of some object, of which, after all, we can form but an 
indistinct idea. The best describers are simple and concise. They set 
before us such features of an object, as, on the first view, strike and 
warm the fancy ; they give us ideas which a statuary or a painter could 
lay hold of, and work after them ; which is one of the strongest and most 
decisive trials of the real merit of description. 



LECTURE XLI. 



THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS, 

Among the various kinds of poetry, which we are, at present, employed 
in examining, the ancient Hebrew poetry, or that of the Scriptures, 
justly deserves a place. Viewing these sacred books in no higher light, 
than as they present to us the most ancient monuments of poetry extant, 
at this day, in the world, they afford a curious object of criticism. They 
display the taste of a remote age and country. 4 They exhibit a species 
of composition, very different from any other with which we are acquaint- 
ed, and, at the same time, beautiful. Considered as inspired writings, 
they give rise to discussions of another kind. But it is our business, at 
present, to consider them not in a theological, but in a critical view : 
and it must needs give pleasure, if we shall find the beauty and dignity 
of the composition adequate to the weight and importance of the matter, 
Dr. Lowth's learned treatise, " De Sacra Poesi Hebraeorum," ought to 

" Whether through Libia's burning sands 
Our journey leads, or Scythia's lands, 
Amidst th' unhospilable waste of snows, 
Or where the fabulous Hydaspes flows. Francis. 

t Here hapless Icarus had found his part, 
Had not the father's grief restrain ; d his art 
He twice essayed to cast his son in gold, 

Twice from his hand he dropp'd the forming mould. Dryden. 
In this translation the thought is justly given; but the beauty of the expression " pa- 
triae manus," which in tl ;', -■ s the thought with so much fenderaess- i c 



LECT. XU.] THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. 4H 

be perused |)y all who desire to become thoroughly acquainted with this 
subject. It is a work exceedingly valuable, both for the elegance of its 
composition and for the justness of the criticism which it contains. In 
this Lecture, as I cannot illustate the subject with more benefit to the 
reader, than by following the track of that ingenious author, I shall make 
much use of his observations. 

I need not spend many words in showing, that among the books of the 
Old Testament there is such an apparent diversity in style, as sufficiently 
discovers, which of them are to be considered as poetical, and which 
as prose compositions. While the historical books, and legislative wri- 
tings of Moses, are evidently prosaic in the composition, the book of 
Job, the Psalms of David, the Song of Solomon, the Lamentations of 
Jeremiah, a great part of the prophetical writings, and several passages 
scattered occasionally through the historical books, carry the most plain 
and distinguishing marks of poetical writing. 

There is not the least reason for doubting, that originally these were 
written in verse, or some kind of measured numbers ; though, as the 
ancient pronunciation of the Hebrew language is now lost, we are not 
able to ascertain the nature of the Hebrew verse, or at most can ascer- 
tain it but imperfectly. Concerning this point there have been great 
controversies among learned men, which it is unnecessary to our present 
purpose to discuss. Taking the Old Testament in our own translation, 
which is extremely literal, we find plain marks of many parts of the 
original being written in a measured style ; and the " disjecta membra 
poetae," often show themselves. Let any person read the historical 
introduction to the book of Job, contained in. the first and second chap- 
ters, and then go on to Job's speech in the beginning of the third chap- 
ter, and he cannot avoid being sensible, that he passes all at once from 
the region of prose to that of poetry. Not only the poetical sentiments 
and the figured style, warn him of the change ; but the cadence of the 
sentence, and the arrangement of the words are sensibly altered ; the 
change is as great as when he passes from reading Csesar's Commenta- 
ries, to read Virgil's iEneid. This is sufficient to show that the sacred 
Scriptures contain, what must be called poetry in the strictest sense of 
that word ; and I shall afterward show that they contain instances of 
most of the different forms of poetical writing. It may be proper to 
remark in passing, that hence arises a most invincible argument in honour 
of poetry. No person can imagine that to be a frivolous and contempti- 
ble art, which has been employed by writers under divine inspiration ; 
and has been chosen as a proper channel, for conveying to the world 
the knowledge of divine truth. 

From the earliest times, music and poetry were cultivated among the 
Hebrews. In the days of the Judges, mention is made of the schools or 
colleges of the prophets ; where one part of the employment of the 
persons trained in such schools was, to sing the praises of God, accom- 
panied with various instruments. In the first Book of Samuel, (chap. x. 
7,) we find, on a public occasion, a company of these prophets coming 
down from the hill where their school was, " prophesying," it is said, 
" with the psaltery, tabret, and harp before them." But in the days of 
king David, music and poetry were carried to their greatest height. For 
the service of the tabernacle, he appointed four thousand Levites, di- 
vided into twenty-four courses, and marshalled under several leader?, 
whose sole business it was to sing hymns, and to perform the instrument 



4I& THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. [LECT. XLI. 

tal music in the public worship. Asaph, Heman, and Jeduthun, were 
the chief directors of the music ; and from the titles of some psalms, 
it would appear that they were also eminent composers of hymns or 
sacred poems. In chapter xxv. of the first Book of Chronicles, an ac- 
count is given of David's institutions, relating to the sacred music and 
poetry ; which were certainly more costly, more splendid and magnifi- 
cent, than ever obtained in the public service of any other nation. 

The general construction of the Hebrew poetry is of a singular na- 
ture, and peculiar to itself. It consists in dividing every period into 
correspondent, for the most part into equal numbers, which answer to 
one another, both in sense and sound. In the first member of the period 
a sentiment is expressed ; and in the second member, the same sentiment 
is amplified, or is repeated in different terms, or sometimes contrasted 
with its opposite ; but in such a manner that the same structure, and 
nearly the same number of words is preserved. This is the general 
strain of all the Hebrew poetry. Instances of it occur every where on 
opening the Old Testament. Thus, in Psalm xcvi. " Sing unto the Lord 
a new song — sing unto the Lord all the earth. Sing unto the Lord, and 
bless his name — show forth his salvation from day to day. Declare his 
glory among the heathen — his wonders among all the people. For the 
Lord is great, and greatly to be praised — he is to be feared above all the 
gods. Honour and majesty are before him — strength and beauty are 
in his sanctuary." It is owing, in a great measure, to this form of 
composition, that our version, though in prose, retains so much of a 
poetical cast. For the version being strictly word for word after the 
original, the form and order of the original sentence are preserved ; 
which, by this artificial structure, this regular alternation and corres 
pondence of parts, makes the ear sensible of a departure from the com- 
mon style and tone of prose. 

The origin of this form of poetical composition among the Hebrews, 
is clearly to be deduced from the manner in which their sacred hymns 
were wont to be sung. They were accompanied with music, and they 
were performed by choirs or bands of singers and musicians, who 
answered alternately to each other. When, for instance, one band be- 
gan the hymn thus : " The Lord reigneth, let the earth rejoice ;" the 
chorus, or semichorus, took up the corresponding versicle ; " Let the 
multitude of the isles be glad thereof." — " Clouds and darkness are round 
about him," sung the one ; the other replied, "Judgment and righte- 
ousness are the habitation of his throne." And in this manner their 
poetry, when set to music, naturally divided itself into a succession of 
strophes and antistrophes correspondent to each other ; whence, it is 
probable, the antiphon, or responsory, in the public religious service of 
so many Christian churches, derived its origin. 

We are expressly told, in the book of Ezra, that the Levites sung in 
this manner ; " Alternatim, or by course ; (Ezra iii. 11.) and some of 
David's Psalms bear plain marks of their being composed in order to be 
thus performed. The 24th Psalm, in particular, which is thought to 
have been composed on the great and solemn occasion of the ark of the 
covenant being brought back to Mount Zion, must have had a noble 
effect when performed after this manner, as Dr. Lowth has illustrated 
it. The whole people are supposed to be attending the procession. 
Tfre Levites and singers, divided into their several courses, and ac- 
companied with all their musical instruments, led the way. After the 



LECT. XLLj THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS- 4I3 

introduction to the Psalm, in the two first verses, when the procession 
begins to ascend the sacred mount, the question is put, as by a semi-cho- 
rus, " Who shall ascend unto the hill of the Lord, and who shall stand in 
his holy place?" The response is made by the full chorus with the 
greatest dignity :" He that hath clean hands and a pure heart ; who hath 
not lifted up his soul to vanity, nor sworn deceitfully." As the procession 
approaches to the doors of the Tabernacle, the chorus, with all their 
instruments, join in this exclamation : " Lift up your heads, ye gates, and 
be ye lifted up, ye everlasting doors ; and the King of Glory shall come 
in." Here the semichorus plainly breaks in, as with a lower voice, 
"Who is the King of Glory ?" and at the moment when the ark is 
introduced into the Tabernacle, the response is made by the burst of the 
whole chorus : " The Lord, strong and mighty ; the Lord, mighty in 
battle." I take notice of this instance, the rather, as it serves to show 
how much of the grace and magnificence of the sacred poems, as indeed 
of all poems, depends upon our knowing the particular occasions for 
wlrich they were composed, and the particular circumstances to which 
they were adapted ; and how much of this beauty must now be lost to us, 
through our imperfect acquaintance with many particulars of the Hebrew 
history, and Hebrew rites. 

The method of composition which has been explained, by corespond- 
ent versicles being universally introduced into the hymns or musical 
poetry of the Jews, easily spread itself through their other poetical 
writings, which were not designed to be sung in alternate portions, and 
which therefore did not so much require this mode of composition. But 
the mode became familiar to their ears, and carried with it a certain 
solemn majesty of style, particularly suited to sacred subjects. Hence, 
throughout the prophetical writings, we find it prevailing as much as 
in the Psalms of David ; as, for instance, in the Prophet Isaiah ? 
(chap. xl. 1.) "Arise, shine, for thy light is come, and the glory of 
the Lord is risen upon thee : For, lo ! darkness shall cover the earth, 
and gross darkness the people. But the Lord shall rise upon thee, and 
his glory shall be seen upon thee, and the Gentiles shall come to thy 
light, and kings to the brightness of thy rising." This form of writing 
is one of the great characteristics of the ancient Hebrew poetry ; very 
different from, and even opposite to, the style of the Greek and Roman 
poets. 

Independently of this peculiar mode of construction, the sacred poetry 
is distinguished by the highest beauties of strong, concise, bold, and figu- 
rative expression. 

Conciseness and strength, are two of its most remarkable characters. 
One might indeed at first imagine, that the practice of the Hebrew poets, 
of always amplifying the same thought, by repetition or contrast, might 
tend to enfeeble their style. But they conduct themselves so as not to 
produce this effect. Their sentences are always short. Few superflu- 
ous words are used. The same thought is never dwelt upon long. 
To their conciseness and sobriety of expression, their poetry is indebted 
for much of its sublimity ; and all writers who attempt the sublime, might 
profit much, by imitating, in this respect, the style of the Old Testa- 
ment. For, as I have formerly had occasion to show, nothing is so great 
an enemy to the sublime, as prolixity or diffuseness. The mind is never 
so much affected by any great idea that is presented to it, as when it is 
struck all at once ; by attempting tG prolong the impression, we at the 



414 THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. [LECT. XLL 

same time weaken it. Most of the ancient original poets of all nations 
are simple and concise. The superfluities and excrescences of style 
were the result of imitation in after-times ; when composition passed 
into inferior hands, and flowed from art and study, more than from 
native genius. 

No writings whatever abound so much with the most bold and anima- 
ted figures, as the sacred books. It is proper to dwell a little upon this 
article ; as, through our early familiarity with these books, a familiarity 
too often with the sound of the words, rather than with their sense and 
meaning, beauties of style escape us in the Scripture, which, in any 
other book, would draw particular attention. Metaphors, comparisons, 
allegories, and personifications, are there particularly frequent. In order 
to do justice to these, it is necessary that we transport ourselves as much 
as we can into the land of Judea ; and place before our eyes that scenery, 
and those objects with which the Hebrew writers were conversant. 
Some attention of this kind is requisite, in order to relish the writings of 
any poet of a foreign country, and a different age. For the imagery of 
every good poet is copied from nature and real life ; if it were not so, it 
could not be lively ; and therefore, in order to enter into the propriety 
of his images, we must endeavour to place ourselves in his situation* 
Now we shall find, that the metaphors and comparisons of the Hebrew 
poets present to us a very beautiful view of the natural objects of their 
own country, and of the arts and employments of their common life. 

Natural objects are in some measure common to them with poets of 
all ages and countries. Light and darkness, trees and flowers, the forest 
and the cultivated field, suggest to them many beautiful figures. But, in 
order to relish their figures of this kind, we must take notice, that 
several of them arise from the particular circumstances of the land of 
Judea. During the summer months, little or no rain falls throughout 
all that region. While the heats continued, the country was intolerably 
parched ; want of water was a great distress ; and a plentiful shower 
falling, or a rivulet breaking forth, altered the whole face of nature, and 
introduced much higher ideas of refreshment and pleasure, than the like 
causes can suggest to us. Hence, to represent distress, such frequent 
allusions among them, "to a dry and thirsty land where no water is ;" 
and hence, to describe a change from distress to prosperity, their meta- 
phors are founded on the falling of showers, and the bursting out of 
springs in the desert. Thus in Isaiah, " The wilderness and the solitary 
place shall be glad, and the desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose. 
For in the wilderness shall waters break out, and streams in the desert : 
and the parched ground shall become a pool, and the thirsty land springs 
of water ; in the habitation of dragons there shall be grass, with rushes 
and reeds." Chap, xxxv. 1, 6, 7. Images of this nature are very fami- 
liar to Isaiah, and occur in many parts of his book. 

Again, as Judea was a hilly country, it was during the rainy months, 
exposed to frequent inundations by the rushing of torrents, which came 
down suddenly from the mountains, and carried every thing before them ; 
and Jordan, their only great river, annually overflowed its banks, 
Hence the frequent allusions to " the noise, and to the rushings of many 
waters ;" and hence great calamities so pften compared to the*overflow~ 
ing torrent, which, in such a country, must have been images particularly 
striking ; " Deep calleth unto deep at the noise of thy waterspouts : aU 
fhv wave« ^nd thy billows are gone over me." Psalm xlii. 7, 



LKCT. XLI.j THE POETRY OF THE HEBREW®. 4|.j 

The two most remarkable mountains of the country, were Lebanon 
and Carmel ; the former noted for its height, and the woods of lofty 
cedars that covered it ; the latter for its beauty and fertility, the richness 
of its vines and olives. Hence, with the greatest propriety, Lebanon is 
employed as an image of whatever is great, strong, or magnificent; Car- 
mel, of what is smiling and beautiful. " The glory of Lebanon," says 
Isaiah, " shall be given to it, and the excellency of Carmel." (xxxv. $.) 
Lebanon is often put metaphorically for the whole state or people of 
Israel, for the temple, for the king of Assyria; Carmel, for the blessings 
of peace and prosperity. "His countenance is as Lebanon," says Solo 
mon, speaking of the dignity of a man's appearance; but when he de- 
scribes female beauty, "Thine head is like Mount Carmel." Songv, 
15, and vii. 5. 

It is farther to be remarked under this head, that in the images of the 
awful and terrible kind, with which the sacred poets abound, they plainly 
draw their descriptions from that violence of the elements, and those 
concussions of nature, with which their climate rendered them acquaint- 
ed. Earthquakes were not unfrequent ; and the tempest of hail, thun- 
der, and lightning, in Judea and Arabia, accompanied with whirlwinds 
and darkness, far exceed any thing of that sort which happens in more 
temperate regions. Isaiah describes, with great majesty, the earth 
"reeling to and fro like a drunkard, and removed like a cottage." (xxiv, 
20.) And in those circumstances of terror, with which an appearance 
of the Almighty is described in the 18th Psalm, when his "pavilion round 
about him was darkness ; when hailstones and coals of fire were his 
voice ; and when, at his rebuke, the channels of the waters are said to 
"be seen, and the foundations of the hills discovered ;" though there may 
be some reference, as Dr. Lowth thinks, to the history of God's descent 
upon Mount Sinai, yet it seems more probable, that the figures were 
taken directly from those commotions of nature with which the author 
was acquainted, and which suggested stronger and nobler images than 
what now occur to us. 

Besides the natural objects of their own country, we find the rights of 
their religion, and the arts and employments of their common life, fre- 
quently employed as grounds of imagery among the Hebrews. They 
were a people chiefly occupied with agriculture and pasturage. These 
were arts held in high honour among them ; not disdained by their 
patriarchs, kings, and prophets. Little addicted to commerce ; sepa- 
rated from the rest of the world by their laws and their religion ; they 
were, during the better days of their state, strangers in a great measure 
to the refinements of luxury. Hence flowed, of course, the many allu- 
sions to pastoral life, to the "green pastures and the still waters," and 
to the care and watchfulness of a shepherd over his flock, which carry 
to this day so much beauty and tenderness in them, in the 23d Psalm, and 
in many other passages of the poetical writings of Scripture. Hence, 
all the images founded upon rural employments, upon the winepress, 
the thrashing-floor, the stubble and the chaff. To disrelish all such 
images, is the effect of false delicacy. Homer is at least as frequent, 
and much more minute and particular in his similes, founded on what 
we now call low life, but in his management of them, far inferior to 
the sacred writers, who generally mix with their comparisons of this 
kind somewhat of dignity and grandeur, to ennoble them. What inex- 
pressible grandeur does the following rural image in Isaiah, for instance. 



4it) THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWo. jLECT. XLI. 

receive from the intervention of the Deity : " The nations shall rush 
like the rushings of many waters ; but God shall rebuke them, and they 
shall fly far off; and they shall be chased as the chaff of the mountain 
before the wind, and like the down of the thistle before the whirlwind.'" 

Figurative allusions, too, we frequently 6nd, to the rites and ceremo- 
nies of their religion ; to the legal distinctions of things clean and un- 
clean ; to the mode of their temple service ; to the dress of their 
priests ; and to the most noted incidents recorded in their sacred history; 
as to the destruction of Sodom, the descent of God upon Mount Sinai, 
and the miraculous passage of the Israelites through the Red Sea. The 
religion of the Hebrews included the whole of their laws and civil con- 
stitution. It was full of splendid external rites that occupied their 
senses; it was connected with every part of their national history and es- 
tablishment ; and hence, all ideas founded on religion, possessed in this 
nation a dignity and importance peculiar to themselves, and were un- 
commonly fitted to impress the imagination. 

From all this it results, that the imagery of the sacred poets is, in a 
high degree, expressive and natural ; it is copied directly from real ob- 
jects that were before their eyes ; it has this advantage, of being more 
complete within itself, more entirely founded on national ideas and 
manners, than that of most other poets. In reading their works we find 
ourselves continually in the land of Judea. The palm-trees, and the 
cedars of Lebanon, are ever rising in our view. The face of their ter- 
ritory, the circumstances of their climate, the manners of the people, 
and the august ceremonies of their religion, constantly pass under dif- 
ferent forms before us. 

The comparisons employed by the sacred poets are generally short, 
touching on one point only of resemblance, rather than branching out 
into little episodes. In this respect, they have perhaps an advantage 
over the Greek and Roman authors ; whose comparisons, by the length 
to which they are extended, sometimes interrupt the narration too much, 
and carry too visible marks of study and labour. Whereas, in the He- 
brew poets, they appear more like the glowings of a lively fancy, just 
glancing aside to some resembling object, and presently returning to its 
track. Such is the following fine comparison, introduced to describe 
the happy influence of good government upon a people, in what are 
called the last words of David, recorded in the 2d Book of Samuel : 
(xxiii. 3.) "He that ruleth over men must be just, ruling in the fear of 
God ; and he shall be as the light of the morning, when the sun riseth ; 
even a morning without clouds ; as the tender grass springing out of the 
earth, by clear shining after rain." This is one of the most regular and 
formal comparisons in the sacred books. 

Allegory, likewise, is a figure frequently found in them. When for- 
merly treating of this figure, I gave, for an instance of it, that remarka- 
bly fine and well-supported allegory, which occurs in the tfOth Psalm, 
wherein the people of Israel are compared to a vine. Of parables, 
which form a species of allegory, the prophetical writings are full, and 
if to us they sometimes appear obscure, we must remember, that in those 
early times, it was universally the mode throughout all the eastern na- 
tions, to convey sacred truths under mysterious figures and representa- 
tions. 

But the poetical figure, which, beyond all others, elevates the style of 
Scripture, and gives it a peculiar boldness and sublimity, is prosopopoeia 



,1. XLI.] THE POETRr OF THE HEBREWS. 4 f? 

or personification. No personifications employed by any poets, are so 
magnificent and striking as those of the inspired writers. On great 
occasions, they animate every part of nature ; especially, when any 
appearance or operation of the Almighty is concerned. " Before him 
went the pestilence — the waters saw thee, O God, and were afraid — the 
mountains saw thee, and they trembled. — The overflowing of the water 
passed by ; — the deep uttered his voice, and lifted up his hands on high." 
When inquiry is made about the place of wisdom, Job introduces the 
" Deep, saying, It is not in me ; and the sea saith, It is not in me. — 
Destruction and death say, We have heard the fame thereof with our 
ears." That noted sublime passage in the book of Isaiah, which 
describes the fall of the king of Assyria, is full of personified objects ; 
the fir-trees and cedars of Lebanon breaking forth into exultation on the 
fall of the tyrant ; hell from beneath, stirring up all the dead to meet 
him at his coming ; and the dead kings introduced as speaking, and join- 
ing in the triumph. In the same strain, are these many lively and pas- 
sionate apostrophes to cities and countries, to persons and things, with 
which the prophetical writings every where abound. " O thou sword of 
the Lord ! how long will it be ere thou be quiet ? put thyself up into the 
scabbard ; rest and be still. How can it be quiet," (as the reply is in- 
stantly made) " seeing the Lord hath given it a charge against Askelon; 
and the sea-shore ; there hath he appointed it." Jerern. xlvii. 6. 

In general, for it would carry us too far to enlarge upon all the instan- 
ces, the style of the poetical books of the Old Testament is, beyond the 
style of all other poetical works, fervid, bold, and animated. It is ex- 
tremely different from that regular correct expression, to which our 
ears are accustomed in modern poetrj'. It is the burst of inspiration. 
The scenes are not coolly described, but represented as passing before 
our eyes. Every object, and every person, is addressed and spoken to, 
as if present. The transition is often abrupt ; the connexion often 
obscure ; the persons are often changed ; figures crowded, and heaped 
upon one another. Bold sublimity, not correct elegance, is its charac- 
ter. We see the spirit of the writer raised beyond himself, and labour- 
ing to find vent for ideas too mighty for his utterance. 

After these remarks on the poetry of the Scripture in general, I shall 
conclude this dissertation, with a short account of the different kinds of 
poetical composition in the sacred books ; and of the distinguishing 
characters of some of the chief writers. 

The several kinds of poetical composition which we find in Scripture, 
are chiefly the didactic, elegiac, pastoral, and lyric. Of the didactic 
species of poetry, the book of Proverbs is the principal instance. The 
nine first chapters of that book are highly poetical, adorned with many 
distinguished graces, and figures of expression. At the 10th chapter 
the style is sensibly altered, and descends into a lower strain, which is 
continued to the end : retaining, however, that sententious pointed man- 
ner, and that artful construction of period, which distinguish all the 
Hebrew poetry. The book of Ecclesiastes comes likewise under this 
head : and some of the Psalms, as the 119th in particular. 

Of elegiac poetry, many very beautiful specimens occur in^cripture ; 
such as the lamentation of David over his friend Jonathan ; several pas- 
sages in the prophetical books ; and several of David's Psalms, com- 
posed on occasions of distress and mourning. The 42d psalm, in parti- 
cular, is, in the highest degree, tender and plaintive, But the most regu- 



413 THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS. [LECT. XLT, 

lar and perfect elegiac composition in the Scripture, perhaps in the whole 
world, is the book entitled the Lamentations of Jeremiah. As the 
prophet mourns in that book over the destruction of the temple, and 
the holy city, and the overthrow of the whole state, he assembles all the 
affecting images which a subject so melancholy could suggest. The 
composition is uncommonly artificial. By turns, the prophet, and the 
city of Jerusalem, are introduced, as pouring forth their sorrows ; and 
in the end, a chorus of the people send up the most earnest and plaintive 
supplications to God. The lines of the original too, as may, in part, 
appear from our translation, are longer than is usual in the other kinds 
of Hebrew poetry : and the melody is rendered thereby more flowing 
and better adapted to the querimonious strain of elegy. 

The Song of Solomon affords us a high exemplification of pastoral 
poetry. Considered with respect to its spiritual meaning, it is undoubt- 
edty a mystical allegory ; in its form, it is a dramatic pastoral, or a 
perpetual dialogue between personages in the character of shepherds ; 
and suitably to that form, it is full of rural and pastoral images from 
beginning to end. 

Of lyric poetry, or that which is intended to be accompanied with 
music, the Okl Testament is full. Besides a great number of hymns 
and songs, which we find scattered in the historical and prophetical books, 
such as the Song of Moses, the Song of Deborah, and many others 
of like nature, the whole book of Psalms is to be considered as a col- 
lection of sacred odes. In these, we find the ode exhibited in all the 
varieties of its form, and, supported with the highest spirit of lyric 
poetr}' ; sometimes sprightly, cheerful, and triumphant; sometimes so- 
lemn and magnificent; sometimes tender and soft. From these instances, 
it clearly appears, that there are contained in the Holy Scriptures full 
exemplifications of several of the chief kinds of poetical writing. 

Among the different composers of the sacred books, there is an evident 
diversity of style and manner ; and to trace their different characters 
in this view, will contribute not a little towards our reading their wri- 
tings with greater advantage. The most eminent of the sacred poets 
are, the Author of the book of Job, David, and Isaiah. As the compo- 
sitions of David are of the lyric kind, there is a greater variety of style 
and manner in his works, than in those of the other two. The manner 
in which, considered merely as a poet, David chiefly excels, is the 
pleasing, the soft, and the tender. In his Psalms there are many lofty 
and sublime passages ; but, in strength of description, he yields to Job ; 
in sublimity, he yields to Isaiah. It is a sort of temperate grandeur, for 
which David is chiefly distinguished ; and to this he always soon returns, 
when, upon some occasions, he rises above it. The psalms in which 
he touches us most, are those in which he describes the happiness of 
the righteous, or the goodness of God ; expresses the tender breathings 
of a devout mind, or sends up moving and affectionate supplications to 
Heaven. Isaiah is, without exception, the most sublime of all poets. 
This is abundantly visible in our translation ; and, what is a material 
circumstance, none of the books of Scripture appear to have been 
more happily translated than the writings of this prophet. Majesty 
is his reigning character ; a majesty more commanding, and more uni- 
formly supported, than is to be found among the rest of the Old Testa- 
ment poets. He possesses, indeed, a dignity and grandeur, both in his 
conceptions and expressions, which is altogether unparalleled, and 



MBCT. XLI.] 



THE POETRY OF THE HEBREWS, 



419 



peculiar to himself. There is more clearness and order too, and a 
more visible distribution of parts, in his book, than in any other of the 
prophetical writings. 

When we compare him with the rest of the poetical prophets, we im- 
mediately see in Jeremiah a very different genius. Isaiah employs him- 
self generally on magnificent subjects. Jeremiah seldom discovers any 
disposition to be sublime, and inclines always to the tender and elegiac. 
Ezekiel, in poetical grace and elegance, is much inferior to them both ; 
but he is distinguished by a character of uncommon force and ardour. 
To use the elegant expressions of Bishop Lowth, with regard to this 
prophet : " Est attrox, vehemens, tragicus ; in sensibus, fervidus, acer- 
bus, indignabundus ; in imaginibus fecundus, tmculentus,et nonnunquam 
pene deformis ; in dictione grandiloquus, gravis, austerus, et interdum 
Incultus ; frequens in repetitionibus, non decoris aut gratise causa, sed 
ex indignatione et vioientia. Quicquid susceperit tractandum in sedulo 
persequitur : in eo unice haeret defixus ; a proposito raro deiiectens. In 
caeteris, a plerisque vatibus fortasse superattis ; sed in eo genere, ad 
quod videtur a natura unice comparatus, nimirum, vi, pondere, impetu, 
granditate, nemo unquam earn superavit." The same learned writer 
compares Isaiah to Homer, Jeremiah to Simonides, and Ezekiel to 
iEschylus. Most of the book of Isaiah is strictly poetical ; of Jeremiah 
and Ezekiel not above one half can be held to belong to poetry. Among 
the minor Prophets, Hosea, Joel, Micah, Habakkuk, and especially 
Nahum, are distinguished for poetical spirit. In the prophecies of Daniel 
and Jonah, there is no poetrj". 

It only now remains to speak of the Book of Job, with which I shall 
conclude. It is known to be extremely ancient ; generally reputed the 
most mcient of all the poetical books ; the author uncertain. It is re- 
markable that this book has no connexion with the affairs or manners 
of the Jews, or Hebrews. The scene is laid in the land of Uz, or 
Idumasa, which is a part of Arabia ; and the imagery employed is gene- 
rally of a different kind from what I before showed to be peculiar to the 
Hebrew poets. We meet with no allusions to the great events of sacred 
history, to the religious rites of the Jews, to Lebanon or to Carmel, or 
any of the peculiarities of the climate of Judea. We find few comparisons 
founded on rivers or torrents ; these were not familiar objects in Arabia. 
Butthe longest comparison that occurs in the book, is to an object frequent 
and well known in that region, a brook that fails in the season of heat, 
and disappoints the expectation of the traveller. 

The poetry, however, of the book of Job is not only equal to that of 
any other of the sacred writings, but is superior to them all, except 
those of Isaiah alone. As Isaiah is the most sublime, David the most 
pleasing and tender, so Job is the most descriptive of all the inspired 
poets. A peculiar glow of fancy, and strength of description, charac- 
terize the author. No writer whatever abounds so much in metaphors. 
He may be said not to describe, but to render visible, whatever he treats 
of. A variety of instances might be given. Let us remark only those 
strong and lively colours, with which, in the following passages taken 
from the 18th and 20th chapters of his book, he paints the condition of 
the wicked ; observe how rapidly his figures rise before us j and what 
a deep impression, at the same time, they leave on the imagination. 
" Knowest thou not this of old, since man was placed upon the earth, 
that the triumphing of the wicked is short, and the joy of the hypocrite 



420 EPIC fOETRT. [LECT. XUL 

but for a moment ? Though his excellency mount up to the heavens, and 
his head reach the clouds, yet he shall perish for ever. He shall fly 
away as a dream, and shall not be found ; yea, he shall be chased away 
as a vision of the night. The eye also which saw him, shall see him 
no more ; they which have seen him shall say, Where is he ? He shall 
s uck the poison of asps ; the viper's tongue shall slay him. In the ful- 
ness of his sufficiency, he shall be in straits ; every hand shall come 
upon him. He shall flee from the iron weapon, and the bow of steel 
shall strike him through. All darkness shall be hid in his secret places. 
A fire not blown shall consume him. The Heaven shall reveal his 
iniquity, and the earth shall rise up against him. The increase of his 
house shall depart. His goods shall flow away in the day of wrath. The 
light of the wicked shall be put out ; the light shall be dark in his taber- 
nacle. The steps of his strength shall be straitened, and his own counsel 
shall cast him down. For he is cast into a net by his own feet. He 
walketh upon a snare. Terrors shall make him afraid on every side ; 
and the robber shall prevail against him. Brimstone shall be scattered 
upon his habitation. His remembrance shall perish from the earth, and 
he shall have no name in the street. He shall be driven from light into 
darkness. They that come after him shall be astonished at his day, 
He shall drink oil' the wrath of the Almighty/- 



LECTURE XLH. 



EPIC POETRY. 

It now remains to treat of the two highest kinds of poetical writing,. 
the epic and the dramatic. I begin with the epic. The Lecture shall 
be employed upon the general principles of that species of composition : 
after which, I shall take a view of the character and genius of the most 
celebrated epic poets. 

The epic poem is universally allowed to be, of all poetical works, the 
most dignified, and, at the same time, the most difficult in execution. 
To contrive a story which shall please and interest all readers, by being 
at once entertaining, important, and instructive ; to rill it with suitable 
incidents ; to enliven it with a variety of characters, and of descriptions ; 
and throughout a long work, to maintain that propriety of sentiment, 
and that elevation of style, which the epic character requires, is unques- 
tionably the highest effort of poetical genius. Hence so very few have 
succeeded in the attempt, that strict critics will hardly allow any other 
poems to bear the name of epic, except the Iliad and the iEneid. 

There is no subject, it must be confessed, on which critics have dis- 
played more pedantry, than on this. By tedious disquisitions, founded 
on a servile submission to authority, they have given such an air of 
mystery to a plain subject, as to render it difficult for an ordinary reader 
to conceive what an epic poem is. By Bossu's definition, it is a dis- 
course invented by art, purely to form the manners of men, by means 
of instructions disguised under the allegory of some important action, 
which is related in verse. This definition would suit several of ^Bsop's 



LECT. XLII.j EPIC POETRY, 421 

Fables, if they were somewhat extended, and put into verse : and ac~ 
cordingly, to illustrate his definition, the critic draws a parallel, in form, 
between the construction of one of JEsop's Fables and the plan of Ho- 
mer's Iliad. The first thing, says he, which either a writer of fables, 
or of heroic poems, does, is, to choose some maxim or point of mora- 
lity ; to inculcate which, is to be the design of his work. Next, he 
invents a general story, or a series of facts, without any names, such 
as he judges will be most proper for illustrating his intended moral. 
Lastly, he particularizes his story ; that is, if he be a fabulist, he intro- 
duces his dog, his sheep, and his wolf ; or if he be an epic poet, he looks 
out in ancient history for some proper names of heroes to give to his 
actors ; and then his plan is completed. 

This is one of the most frigid and absurd ideas that ever entered into 
the mind of a critic. Homer, he says, saw the Grecians divided into a 
great number of independent states ; but very often obliged to unite 
into one body against their common enemies. The most useful instruc- 
tion which he could give them in this situation, was that a misunder- 
standing between princes is the ruin of the common cause. In order to 
enforce this instruction, he contrived, in his own mind, such a general 
story as this. Several princes join in a confederacy against their enemy. 
The prince who was chosen as the leader of the rest, affronts one of 
the most valiant of the confederates, who thereupon withdraws himself, 
and refuses to take part in the common enterprise. Great misfortunes 
are the consequence of this division ; till at length, both parties having 
suffered by the quarrel, the offended prince forgets his displeasure, and 
is reconciled to the leader ; and union being once restored, there ensues 
complete victory over their enemies. Upon this general plan of his 
fable, adds Bossu, it was of no great consequence, whether, in filling 
it up, Homer had employed the name of beasts, like iEsop, or of men. 
He would have been equally instructive either way. But as he rather 
fancied to write of heroes, he pitched upon the wall of Troy for the 
scene of his fable ; he feigned such an action to happen there ; he gave 
the name of Agamemnon to the common leader ; that of Achilles, to the 
offended prince : and so the Iliad arose. 

He that can believe Homer to have proceeded in this manner, may 
believe any thing. One may pronounce with great certainty, that an 
author who should compose according to such a plan ; who should ar- 
range all the subject in his own mind, with a view to the moral, before 
he had ever thought of the personages who were to be actors, might 
write, perhaps, useless fables for children; but as to an epic poem, if 
he adventured to think of one, it would be such as would find few read- 
ers-. No person of any taste can entertain a doubt, that the first objects 
which strike an epic poet are, the hero whom he is to celebrate, and 
the action, or story, which is to be the groundwork of his poem. He 
does not sit down, like a philosopher, to form the plan of a treatise of 
morality. His genius is fired by some great enterprise, which to him 
appears noble and interesting ; and which, therefore, he pitches upon 
as worthy of being celebrated in the highest strain of poetry. There is 
no subject of this kind, but will always afford some general moral instruc- 
tion, arising from it naturally. The instruction which Bossu points out, 
is certainly suggested by the Iliad ; and there is another which arises as 
naturally, and may just as well be assigned for the moral of that poem ; 
namely, that providence avenges those who have suffered injustice ; but 



422 E^C POETRY. [LECT. XLIL 

that when they allow their resentment to carry them too far, it brings 
misfortunes on themselves. The subject of the poem is the wrath o£ 
Achilles, caused by the injustice of Agamemnon. Jupiter avenges Achil- 
les by giving success to the Trojans against Agamemnon ; but by con- 
tinuing obstinate in his resentment, Achilles loses his beloved friend Pa- 
troclus. 

The plain account of the nature of an epic poem, is, the recital of 
some illustrious enterprise in a poetical form. This is as exact a defi- 
nition, as there is any occasion for on this subject. It comprehends several 
other poems besides the Iliad of Homer, the iEneid of Virgil, and the 
Jerusalem of Tasso ; which are, perhaps, the three most regular and 
complete epic works that ever were composed. But to exclude all 
poems from the epic class, which are not formed exactly upon the same 
model as these, is the pedantry of criticism. We can give exact defi- 
nitions and descriptions of minerals, plants, and animals ; and can arrange 
them with precision, under the different classes to which they belong, 
because nature affords a visible unvarying standard, to which we refer 
them. But with regard to works of taste and imagination, where nature 
has fixed no standard, but leaves scope for beauties of many different 
kinds, it is absurd to attempt defining, and limiting them with the same 
precision. Criticism, when employed in such attempts, degenerates 
into trifling questions about words and names only. I therefore have no 
scruple to class such poems, as Milton's Paradise Lost, Lucan's Pharsalia. 
Statius's Thebiad, Ossian's Fingal and Temora, Camoen's Lusiad, Vol- 
taire's Henriade, Cambray's Telemachus, Glover's Leonidas, Wilkie's 
Epigoniad, under the same species of composition with the Iliad and the 
jEneid ; though some of them approach much nearer than others to the 
perfection of these celebrated works. They are, undoubtedly, all epic: 
that is, poetical recitals of great adventures ; which is all that is meant 
by this denomination of poetry. 

Though I cannot, by any means, allow, that it is the essence of an 
epic poem to be wholly an allegory, or a fable contrived to illustrate 
some moral truth, yet it is certain, that no poetry is of a more moral 
nature than this. Its effect in promoting virtue, is not to be measured 
by any one maxim, or instruction, which results from the whole history, 
like the moral of one of iEsop's fables. This is a poor and trivial view of 
the advautage to be derived from perusing along epic work, that at the 
end we shall be able to gather from it some commonplace morality. Its 
effect arises from the impression which the parts of the poem separately, 
as well as the whole taken together, make upon the mind of the reader ; 
from the great examples which it sets before us, and the high sentiments 
with which it warms our hearts. The end which it proposes is to extend 
our ideas of human perfection : or, in other words, to excite admiration. 
Now this can be accomplished only by proper representations of heroic 
deeds and virtuous characters. For high virtue is the object, which all 
mankind are formed to admire ; and, therefore, epic poems are, and 
must be, favourable to the cause of virtue. Valour, truth, justice, 
fidelity, friendship, piety, magnanimity, are the objects which, in the 
course of such compositions, are presented to our minds, under the most 
splendid and honourable colours. In behalf of virtuous personages, 
our affections are engaged ; in their designs, and their distresses, we 
are interested ; the generous and public affections are awakened ; the 
mind is purified from sensual and mean pursuits, and accustomed to take 



LECT. XLIL] EPIC POETRY, , 433 

part in great heroic enterprises. It is indeed no small testimony in 
honour of virtue, that several of the most refined and elegant entertain- 
ments of mankind, such as that species of poetical composition which 
we now consider, must be grounded on moral sentiments and impressions. 
This is a testimony of such weight that, ivere it in the power of scep- 
tical philosophers, to weaken the force of those reasonings which 
establish the essential distinctions between vice and virtue, the writings 
of epic poets alone were sufficient to refute their false philosophy ; 
showing by that appeal which they constantly make to the feelings of 
mankind in favour of virtue, that the foundations of it are laid deep and 
strong in human nature. 

The general strain and spirit of epic composition, sufficiently mark its 
distinction from the other kinds of poetry. In pastoral writing, the 
reigning idea is, innocence and tranquillity. Compassion is the great 
object of tragedy ; ridicule, the province of conedy . The predominant 
character of the epic is, admiration excited by heroic actions. It is 
sufficiently distinguished from history, both by its poetical form, and the 
liberty of fiction which it assumes. It is a more calm composition than 
tragedy. It admits, nay requires, the pathetic and the violent, on par- 
ticular occasions ; but the pathetic is not expected to be its general 
character. It requires more than an}' other species of poetry, a grave, 
equal, and supported dignity. It takes in a greater compass of time and 
action, than dramatic writing admits ; and thereby allows a more full 
display of characters. Dramatic writings display characters chiefly by 
means of sentiments and passions ; epic poetry, chiefly by means of 
actions. The emotions, therefore, which it raises, are not so violent, 
but they are more prolonged. These are the general characteristics of 
this species of composition. But, in order to give a more particular and 
critical view of it, let us consider the epic poem under three heads ; 
first, with respect to the subject, or action ; secondly, with respect to 
the actors or characters ; and lastly, with respect to the narration of 
the poet. 

The action, or subject of the epic poem, must have three properties : 
it must be one ; it must be great ; it must be interesting. 

First, It must be one action, or enterprise, which the poet chooses for 
his subject. I have frequently had occasion to remark the importance 
of unity, in many kinds of composition in order to make a full and strong 
impression upon the mind. With the highest reason, Aristotle insists 
upon this, as essential to epic poetry ; and it is, indeed, the most material 
of all his rules respecting it. For it is certain, that, in the recital of 
heroic adventures, several scattered and independent facts can never 
affect a reader so deeply, nor engage his attention so strongly, as a tale 
that is one and connected, where the several incidents hang upon one 
another, and are all made to conspire for the accomplishment of one 
end. In a regular epic, the more this unity is rendered sensible to the 
imagination, the effect will be the better ; and, for this reason, as Aris- 
totle has observed, it is not sufficient for the poet to confine himself to 
the actions of one man, or to those which happened during a certain 
period of time ; but the unity must lie in the subject itself; and arise 
from all the parts combining into one whole. 

In all the great epic poems, unity of action is sufficiently apparent. 
Virgil, for instance, has chosen for his subject, the establishment of 
HSneas in Italy, From the beginning to the end of the poem, this object. 



424 £HC POETRY, [LECT. XLIL 

is ever in our view, and links all the parts of it together with full con- 
nexion. The unity of the Odyssey is of the same nature ; the return 
and re-establishment of Ulysses in his own country. The subject of 
Tasso, is the recovery of Jerusalem from the infidels ; that of Milton, 
the expulsion of our first parents from Paradise ; and both of them are 
unexceptionable in the unity of the story. The professed subject of the 
Iliad, is the anger of Achilles, with the consequences which it produced. 
The Greeks carry on many unsuccessful engagements against the Trojans, 
as long as they are deprived of the assistance of Achilles. Upon his 
being appeased and reconciled to Agamemnon, victory follows, and the 
poem closes. It must be owned, however, that the unity, or connecting 
principle, is not quite so sensible to the imagination here, as in the iEneid. 
For, throughout many books of the Iliad, Achilles is out of sight ; he is 
lost in inaction, and the fancy terminates on no other object, than the 
success of the two armies whom we see contending in war. 

The unity of the epic action is not to be so strictly interpreted, as if 
it excluded all episodes, or subordinate actions. It is necessary to ob- 
serve here, that the term episode is employed by Aristotle, in a different 
sense from what we now give to it. It was a term originally applied to 
dramatic poetry, and thence transferred to epic ; and by episodes, in an 
epic poem, it should seem that Aristotle understood the extension of the 
general fable, or plan of the poem, into all its circumstances. What his 
meaning was, is indeed not very clear ; and this obscurity has occasioned 
much altercation among critical writers. Bossu, in particular, is so 
perplexed upon this subject, as to be almost unintelligible. But, dis- 
missing so fruitless a controversy, what we now understand by episodes, 
are certain actions, or incidents, introduced into the narration, connected 
with the principal action, yet not so essential to it, as to destroy, if 
they had been omitted, the main subject of the poem. Of this nature 
are the interview of Hector with Andromache, in the Iliad : the story 
of Cacus, and that of Nisus and Euryalus, in the iEneid ; the adventures 
of Tancred with Erminia and Clorinda, in the Jerusalem ; and the 
prospect of his descendants exhibited to Adam, in the last books of 
Paradise Lost. 

Such episodes as these, are not only permitted to an epic poet, but, 
provided they be properly executed, are great ornaments to his work, 
The rules regarding them are the following : 

First, They must be naturally introduced ; they must have a sufficient 
connexion with the subject of the Poem ; they must seem inferior parts 
that belong to it ; not mere appendages stuck to it. The episode of 
Olinda and Sophronia, in the second book of Tasso's Jerusalem, is faulty, 
by transgressing this rule. It is too detached from the rest of the work : 
and, being introduced so near the opening of the poem, misleads the 
reader into an expectation, that it is to be of some future consequence ; 
\vhereas, it proves to be connected with nothing that follows. In pro- 
portion as any episode is slightly related to the main subject, it should 
always be the shorter. The passion of Dido in the ^Eneid, and the 
snares of Armida in the Jerusalem, which are expanded so fully in these 
poems, cannot with propriety be called episodes. They are constituent 
parts of the work, and form a considerable share of the intrigue of the 
poem. 

In the next place, episodes ought to present to us objects of a differ- 
ent kind from those which go before, and those, which follow in the 



LECT. XULj LPIC POETKV 4^. 

course of the poem. For it is principally for the sake of variety, that 
episodes are introduced into an epic composition. In so long a work, 
they tend to diversify the subject, and to relieve the reader, by shifting 
the scene. In the midst of combats, therefore, an episode of the mar- 
tial kind would be out of place ; whereas, Hector's visit to Andromache 
in the Iliad, and Erminia's adventure with the shepherd in the seventh 
book of the Jerusalem, affords us a well-judged and pleasing retreat 
from camps and battles. 

Lastly, as an episode is a professed embellishment, it ought to be par- 
iicularly elegant and well finished ; and accordingly, it is, for the most 
part, in pieces of this kind, that poets put forth their strength. The 
episodes of Teribazus and Ariana, in Leonidas, and of the death of Her- 
cules, in the Epigoniad, are the two greatest beauties in these poems. 

The unity of the epic action necessarily supposes, that the action be 
entire and complete : that is, as Aristotle well expresses it, that it have 
a beginning, a middle, and an end. Either by relating the whole, in 
his own person, or by introducing some of his actors to relate what had 
passed before the opening of the poem, the author must always contrive 
to give us full information of every thing that belongs to his subject ; he 
must not leave our curiosity, in any article, ungratified ; he must bring 
us precisely to the accomplishment of his plan ; and then conclude. 

The second property of the epic action is, that it be great; that it 
have sufficient splendour and importance, both to fix our attention, and 
to justify the magnificent apparatus which the poet bestows upon it. 
This is so evidently requisite as not to require illustration ; and, indeed, 
hardly any who have attempted epic poetry, have failed in choosing 
some subject sufficiently important, either by the nature of the action, 
or by the fame of the personages concerned in it. 

It contributes to the grandeur of the epic subject, that it be not of a 
modern date, nor fall within any period of history with which we are 
intimately acquainted. Both Lucan and Voltaire have, in the choice of 
their subjects, transgressed this rule, and they have, upon that account, 
succeeded worse. Antiquity is favourable to those high and august 
ideas, which epic poetry is designed to raise. It tends to aggrandize, 
in our imagination, both persons and events : and what is still more 
material, it allows the poet the liberty of adorning his subject by means 
of fiction. Whereas, as soon as he comes within the verge of real and 
authenticated history, this liberty is abridged. He must either confine 
himself wholly, as Lucan has done, to strict historical truth, at the 
expense of rendering his story jejune ; or if he goes beyond it, like 
Voltaire in his Henriade* this disadvantage follows, that, in well- 
known events, the true and the fictitious parts of the plan do not natu- 
rally mingle, and incorporate with each other. These observations 
cannot be applied to dramatic writing ; where the personages are exhi- 
bited to us, notso much that we may admire, as that we may love or pity 
them. Such passions are much more consistent with the familiar his- 
torical knowledge of the persons who are to be the objects of them ; 
and even require them to be displayed in the light, and with the failings 
of ordinary men. Modern and well-known history, therefore, may fur- 
nish very proper materials for tragedy. But for epic poetry, where 
heroism is the groundwork, and where the object in view is to excite 
admiration, ancient or traditionary history, is assuredly the safest region. 
There, the author may lay hold on names, and characters, and event? 

Hh h 



426 EHC.F0ETR1\, [LECT.XLI? 

not wholly unknown, on which to build his story, while, at the same 
time, by reason of the distance pf the period, or of the remoteness of the 
scene, sufficient is left him for fiction and invention. 

The third property required in the epic poem is, that it be interest- 
ing. It is not sufficient for this purpose that it be great. For deeds of 
mere valour, how heroic soever, may prove cold and tiresome. Much 
will depend on the happy choice of some subject, which shall, by its 
nature, interest the public ; as when the poet selects for his hero, one 
who is the founder, or the deliverer, or the favourite of his nation ; or 
when he writes of achievements that have been highly celebrated, or 
have been connected with important consequences to any public cause. 
Most of the great epic poems are abundantly fortunate in this respect, 
and must have been very interesting to those ages and countries in which 
they were composed. 

But the chief circumstance which renders an epic poem interesting, 
and which tends to interest, not one age or country alone, but all readers, 
is the skilful conduct of the author in the management of his subject, 
He must so contrive his plan, as that it shall comprehend many affecting 
incidents. He must not dazzle us perpetually with valiant achievements ; 
for all readers tire of constant fighting and battles ; but he must study 
to touch our hearts. He may sometimes be awful and august ; he must 
often be tender and pathetic ; he must give us gentle and pleasing scenes 
of love, friendship, and affection. The more an epic poem abounds 
with situations which awaken the feelings of humanity, it is the more 
interesting ; and these form always the favourite passages of the work. 
I know no epic poets so happy in this respect as Virgil and Tasso. 

Much, too, depends on the characters of the heroes, for rendering 
the poem interesting ; that they be such, as shall strongly attach the 
readers, and make them take part in the dangers which the heroes en- 
counter. These dangers, or obstacles form w T hat is called the nodus, 
or the intrigue of the epic poem; in the judicious conduct of which, 
consists much of the poet's art. He must rouse our attention, by a 
prospect of the difficulties which seem to threaten disappointment to the 
enterprise of his favourite personages ; he must make these difficulties 
grow and thicken upon us by degrees ; till, after having kept us, for 
some time in a state of agitation and suspense, he paves the way, by a 
proper preparation of incidents, for the winding up of the plot in a natu- 
ral and probable manner. It is plain, that every tale which is designed 
to engage attention, must be conducted on apian of this sort. 

A question has been moved, whether the nature of the epic poem 
does not require that it should always end successfully ? Most critics 
are inclined to think, that a successful issue is the most proper ; and they 
appear to have reason on their side. An unhappy conclusion depresses 
the mind, and is opposite to the elevating emotions which belong to 
this species of poetry. Terror and compassion are the proper subjects 
of tragedy ; but as the epic poem is of larger compass and extent, it 
were too much, if, after the difficulties and troubles which commonly 
abound in the progress of the poem, the author should bring them ail 
at last to an unfortunate issue. Accordingly, the general practice of epic 
poets is on the side of a prosperous conclusion ; not, however, without 
some exceptions. For two authors of great name, Lucan and Milton, 
have held a contrary course ; the one concluding with the subversion of 
the' Roman liberty ; the other, with the expulsion of man from Paradise* 



LECT.'XLll.] EFrc POETRi . 437 

With regard to the time or duration of the epic action, no precise 
boundaries can be ascertained. A considerable extent is always allow- 
ed to it, as it does not necessarily depend on those violent passions which 
can be supposed to have only a short continuance. The Iliad, which is 
formed upon the anger of Achilles, has, with propriety, the shortest du- 
ration of any of the great epic poems. According to Bossu, the action 
lasts no longer than forty-seven days. The action of the Odyssey, com- 
puted from the taking of Troy to the peace of Ithaca, extends to eight 
years and a half; and the action of the iEneid, computed in the same 
way from the taking of Troy to the death of Turnus, includes about six 
years. But if we measure the period only of the poet's own narration, 
or compute from the time in which the hero makes his first appearance 
till the conclusion, the duration of both these last poems is brought with- 
in a much smaller compass. The Odyssey, beginning with Ulysses in 
the island of Calypso, comprehends fifty-eight days only ; and the 
iEneid beginning with the storm, which throws iEneas upon the coast 
of Africa, is reckoned to include, at the most, a year and some months. 

Having thus treated of the epic action, or the subject of the poem, I 
proceed next to make some observations on the actors or personages. 

As it is the business of an epic poet to copy after nature, and to form 
a probable interesting tale, he must study to give all his personages pro- 
per and well-supported characters, such as display the features of human 
nature. This is what Aristotle calls giving manners to the poem. It is 
by no means necessary, that all his actors be morally good ; imperfect, 
nay, vicious characters may find a proper place ; though the nature of 
epic poetry seems to require, that the principal figures exhibited should 
be such as tend to raise admiration and love, rather than hatred or con- 
tempt But whatever the character be which a poet gives to any of his 
actors, he must take care to preserve it uniform and consistent with 
itself. Every thing which that person says, or does, must be suited to 
it, and must serve to distinguish him from any other. 

Poetic characters may be divided into two kinds, general and particu- 
lar. General characters are, such as wise, brave, virtuous, without any 
farther distinction. Particular characters express the species of brave- 
ry, of wisdom, of virtue, for which any one is eminent. They exhibit 
the peculiar features which distinguish one individual from another, 
which mark the difference of the same moral quality in different men, 
according as it is combined with other dispositions in their temper. In 
drawing such particular characters, genius is chiefly exerted. How 
far each of the three great epic poets have distinguished themselves in 
this part of composition, I shall have occasion afterward to show, when 
I come to make remarks upon their works. It is sufficient now to men- 
tion, that it is in this part Homer has principally excelled ; Tasso has 
come the nearest to Homer ; and Virgil has been the most deficient. 

It has been the practice of all epic poets, to select some one person- 
age, whom they distinguish above all the rest, and make the hero of the 
tale. This is considered as essential to epic composition, and is attended 
with several advantages. It renders the unity of the subject more sen- 
sible, when there is one principal figure, to which, as to a centre, all 
the rest refer. It tends to interest us more in the enterprise which is 
carried on ; and it gives the poet an opportunity of exerting his talents 
for adorning, and displaying one character, with peculiar splendour. It 
has been asked, Who then is the hero of Paradise Lost? The devil, 



428 EPIC POETRY. £LECT. XML 

it has been answered by some critics : and, in consequence of this idea, 
much ridicule and censure has been thrown upon Milton. But they 
have mistaken that author's intention by proceeding upon a supposition, 
that, in the conclusion of his poem, the hero must needs be triumphant. 
Whereas Milton followed a different plan, and has given a tragic con- 
clusion to a poem, otherwise epic in its form. For Adam is undoubtedly 
his hero ; that is, the capital and most interesting figure in his poem. 

Besides human actors, there are personages of another kind, that 
usually occupy no small place in Epic Poetry ; I mean the gods, or 
supernatural beings. This brings us to the consideration of what is 
called the Machinery of the Epic Poem ; the most nice and difficult part 
of the subject. Critics appear to me to have gone to extremes on both 
sides. Almost all the French critics decide in favour of machinery, as 
essential to the constitution of an epic poem. They quote that sen- 
tence of Petronius Arbiter, as if it were an oracle, " per ambages, 
Deorumque ministeria, precipitandus est liber spiritus," and hold, that 
though a poem had every other requisite that could be demanded, yet it 
could not be ranked in the epic class, unless the main action was carried 
on by the intervention of the gods. This decision seems to be founded 
on no principle or reason whatever, unless a superstitious reverence for 
the practice of Homer and Virgil. These poets very properly embel- 
lished their story by the traditional tales and popular legends of their 
own country ; according to which all the great transactions of the heroic 
times were intermixed with the fables of their deities. But does it 
thence follow, that in other countries, and other ages, where there is not 
the like advantage of current superstition, and popular credulity, epic 
poetry must be wholly confined to antiquated fictions and fairy tales ? 
Lucan has composed a very spirited poem, certainly of the epic kind, 
where neither gods nor supernatural beings are at all employed. The 
author of Leonidas has made an attempt of the same kind, not without 
success ; and beyond doubt, wherever a poet gives us a regular heroic 
story, well connected in its parts, adorned with characters, and support- 
ed with proper dignity and elevation, though his agents be every one of 
them human, he has fulfilled the chief requisites of this sort of compo- 
sition, and has a just title to be classed with epic writers. 

But though I cannot admit that machinery is necessary or essential to 
the epic plan, neither can 1 agree with some late critics of considerable 
name, who are for excluding it totally , as inconsistent with that probability 
and impression of reality which they think should reign in this kind of 
writing.* Mankind do not consider poetical writings with so philosophi- 
cal an eye. They seek entertainment from them ; and for the bulk of 
readers, indeed for almost all men, the marvellous has a great charm. 
It gratifies and fills the imagination ; and gives room for many a striking 
and sublime description. In epic poetry, in particular, where admiration 
and lofty ideas are supposed to reign, the marvellous and supernatural 
find, if any where, their proper place. They both enable the poet to 
aggrandize his subject, by means of those august and solemn objects 
which religion introduces into it ; and they allow him to enlarge and di- 
versify his plan, by comprehending within it heaven, and earth, and hell, 
men, and invisible beings, and the whole circle of the universe. 

* See Elements of Criticism? ch, 22. 



LECT. XLI1.] EPIC POETRY. 439 

At the same time, in the use of this supernatural machinery, it becomes 
a poet to be temperate and prudent. He is not at liberty to invent what 
system of the marvellous he pleases. It must always have some foun- 
dation in popular belief. He must avail himself, in a decent manner, either 
of the religious faith, or the superstitious credulity of the country 
wherein he lives, or of which he writes, so as to give an air of proba- 
bility to events which are most contrary to the common course of nature. 
Whatever machinery he employs, he must take care not to overload us 
with it ; not to withdraw human actions and manners too much from 
view, not to obscure them under a cloud of incredible fictions. He must 
always remember, that his chief business is to relate to men, the actions 
and the exploits of men ; that it is by these principally he is to interest 
us, and to touch our hearts ; and that if probability be altogether banish- 
ed from his work, it can never make a deep or a lasting impression. 
Indeed, I know nothing more difficult in epic poetry, than to adjust pro- 
perly the mixture of the marvellous with the probable ; so as to gratify 
and amuse us with the one, without sacrificing the other. I need hardly 
observe, that these observations affect not the conduct of Milton's work; 
whose plan being altogether theological, his supernatural beings form 
not the machinery, but are the principal actors in the poem. 

With regard to allegorical personages, fame, discord, love, and the like,, 
it may be safely pronounced, that they form the worst machinery of any, 
In description they are sometimes allowable, and may serve for embel- 
lishment ; but they should never be permitted to bear any share in the 
action of the poem. For being plain and declared fictions, mere names 
of general ideas, to which even fancy cannot attribute any existence as 
persons, if they are introduced as mingling with human actors, an into- 
lerable confusion of shadows and realities arises, and all consistency of 
action is utterly destroyed. 

In the narration of the poet, which is the last head that remains to be 
considered, it is not material, whether he relate the whole story in his 
own character, or introduce some of his personages to relate any part of 
the action that had passed before the poem opens. Homer follows the 
one method in his Iliad, and the other in his Odyssey. Virgil has, in 
this respect, imitated the conduct of the Odyssey ; Tasso that of the Iliad. 
The chief advantage which arises from any of the actors being employed 
to relate part of the story, is, that it allows the poet, if he chooses it, to 
open with some interesting situation of affairs, informing us afterward of 
what had passed before that period ; and gives him the greater liberty of 
spreading out such parts of the subject as he is inclined to dwell upon in 
person, and of comprehending the rest within a short recital. Where 
the subject is of great extent, and comprehends the transactions of seve- 
ral years, as in the Odyssey and the iEneid, this method therefore seems 
preferable. When the subject is of smaller compass, and shorter dura- 
tion, as in the Iliad and the Jerusalem, the poet may, without disadvan- 
tage, relate the whole in his own person, according as is done in both 
these poems. 

In the proposition of the subject, the invocation of the muse, and other 
ceremonies of the introduction, poets may vary at their pleasure. It is 
perfectly trifling to make these little formalities the object of precise rule, 
any farther, than that the subject of the work should always be clearly 
proposed, and without affected or unsuitable pomp. For, according to 
Horace's noted rule, no introduction should ever set out too high, or pr©- 



430 raE ILIAD OF HOMER. £LECT. XLIIJ, 

inise too much, lest the author should not fulfil the expectations he has 
raised. 

What is of most importance in the tenor of the narration is, that it 
be perspicuous, animated, and enriched with all the beauties of poetry. 
No sort of composition requires more strength, dignity, and fire, than 
the epic poem. It is the region within which we look for every thing 
that is sublime in description, tender in sentiment, and bold and lively 
in expression ; and, therefore, though an author's plan should be fault- 
less, and his story ever so well conducted, yet if he be feeble, or flat in 
style, destitute of affecting scenes, and deficient in poetical colouring, 
he can have no success. The ornaments which epic poetry admits, must 
all be of the grave and chaste kind. Nothing that is loose, ludicrous, or 
affected, finds any place there. All the objects which it presents ought 
to be either great, or tender, or pleasing. Descriptions of disgusting 
or shocking objects, should as much as possible be avoided ; and there- 
fore, the fable of the Harpies, in the third book of the iEneid, and the 
allegory of Sin and Death, in the second book of Paradise Lost, had 
been better omitted in these celebrated poems. 



LECTURE XLIII. 



HOMER'S ILIAD AND ODYSSEY— VIRGIL'S JENEID. 

As the epic poem is universally allowed to possess the highest rank 
among poetical works, it merits a particular discussion. Having treated 
of the nature of this composition, and the principal rules relating to it, 
I proceed to make some observations on the most distinguished epic 
poems, ancient and modern. 

Homer claims, on every account, our first attention, as the father not 
only of epic poetry, but in some measure, of poetry in general. Who- 
ever sits down to read Homer, must consider that he is going to read the 
most ancient book in the world, next to the Bible. Without making 
this reflection, he cannot enter into the spirit, nor relish the composi- 
tion of the author. He is not to look for the correctness and elegance 
of the Augustan age. He must divest himself of our modern ideas of 
dignity and refinement ; and transport his imagination almost three thou- 
sand years back in the history of mankind. What he is to expect, is a 
picture of the ancient world. He must reckon upon finding characters 
and manners, that retain a considerable tincture of the savage state ; 
moral ideas, as yet imperfectly formed ; and the appetites and passions 
of men brought under none of those restraints, to which, in a more ad- 
vanced state of society, they are accustomed ; but bodily strength, 
prized as one of the chief heroic endowments ; the preparing of a meal, 
and the appeasing of hunger, described as very interesting objects ; 
and the heroes boasting of themselves openly, scolding one another 
outrageously, and glorying, as we should now think very indecently, over 
their fallen enemies. 

The opening of the Iliad possesses none of that sort of dignity which 
a modem looks for in a great epic poem. It turns on no higher subject. 



LECT. XLIII.3 1H£ ILIAD OF HOMEK, 4^ 

than the quarrel of two chieftains about a female slave. The priest of 
Apollo beseeches Agamemnon to restore his daughter, who, in the plun- 
der of a city, had fallen to Agamemnon's share of booty. He refuses. 
Apollo, at the prayer of his priest, sends a plague into the Grecian 
camp. The augur, when consulted, declares that there is no way of 
appeasing Apollo, but by restoring the daughter of his priest. Aga- 
memnon is enraged at the augur : professes that he likes his slave better 
than his wife Clytemnestra ; but since he must restore her in order to 
save the army, insists to have another in her place ; and pitches upon 
Briseis, the slave of Achilles. Achilles, as wag to be expected, kindles 
into a rage at this demand; reproaches him for his rapacity and insolence, 
and, after giving him many hard names, solemnly swears, that if he is 
to be thus treated by the general, he will withdraw his troops, and assist 
the Grecians no more against the Trojans. He withdraws accordingly. 
His mother, the goddess Thetis, interests Jupiter in his cause ; who, 
to revenge the wrong which Achilles had suffered, takes part against 
the Greeks, and suffers them to fall into great and long distress ; until 
Achilles is pacified, and reconciliation brought about between him and 
Agamemnon. 

Such is the basis of the whole action of the Iliad. Hence rise all 
those " speciosamiracula," as Horace terms them, which fill that extra- 
ordinary poem ; and which have had the power of interesting almost all 
the nations of Europe, during every age, since the days of Homer. 
The general admiration commanded by a poetical plan, so very differ- 
ent from what any one would have formed in our times, ought not, 
upon reflection, to be matter of surprise. For, besides that a fertile 
genius can enrich and beautify any subject on which it is employed, it 
is to be observed, that ancient manners, how much soever they contra- 
dict our present notions of dignity and refinement, afford, nevertheless, 
materials for poetry, superior in some respects, to those which are fur- 
nished by a more polished state of society. They discover human na- 
ture more open and undisguised, without any of those studied forms of 
behaviour which now conceal men from one another. They give free 
scope to the strongest and most impetuous emotions of the mind, which 
make a better figure in description, than calm and temperate feelings. 
They show us our native prejudices, appetites, and desires, exerting 
themselves without control. From this state of manners, joined with 
the advantage of that strong and expressive style, which, as I formerly 
observed, commonly distinguishes the compositions of early ages, we 
have ground to look for more of the boldness, ease, and freedom of native 
genius, in compositions of such a period, than in those of more civilized 
times. And, accordingly, the two great characters of the Homeric poe- 
try are, fire and simplicity. Let us now proceed to make some more 
particular observations on the Iliad, under the three heads of the sub- 
ject and action, the characters, and narration of the poet. 

The subject of the Iliad must unquestionably be admitted to be, in 
the main, happily chosen. In the days of Homer, no object could be 
more splendid and dignified than the Trojan war. So great a confede- 
racy of the Grecian states, under one leader ; and the ten years' siege 
which they carried on against Troy, must have spread far abroad the 
renown of many military exploits, and interested ail Greece in the tra- 
ditions concerning the heroes who had most eminently signalized them- 
selves. Upon these traditions. Homer grounded his poem ; and though 



432 *WAD OF HOMER. [LECT. XLUI. 

he lived, as is generally believed, only two or three centuries after the 
Trojan war, yet, through the want of written records, tradition must, 
by his time, have fallen into the degree of obscurity most proper for 
poetry ; and have left him at full liberty to mix as much fable as he 
pleased, with the remains of true history. He has not chosen, for 
his subject, the whole Trojan war; but, with great judgment, he has 
selected one part of it, the quarrel betwixt Aehilles and Agamemnon, 
and the events to which that quarrel gave rise ; which, though they take 
up forty-seven days only, jet included the most interesting, and most 
critical period of the war. By this management, he has given greater 
unity to what would have otherwise been an unconnected history of 
battles. He has gained one hero, or principal character, Achilles, who 
reigns throughout the work ; and he has shown the pernicious effect of 
discord among confederated princes. At the same time, I admit that 
Homer is less fortunate in his subject than Virgil. The plan of the 
iEneid includes a greater compass, and a more agreeable diversity of 
events ; whereas the Iliad is almost entirely filled with battles. 

The praise of high invention has in every age been given to Homer, 
with the greatest reason. The prodigious number of incidents, of 
speeches, of characters, divine and human, with which he abounds; the 
surprising variety with which he has diversified his battles, in the wounds 
and deaths, and little history pieces of almost all the persons slain, dis- 
cover an invention next to boundless. But the praise of judgment is, in 
my opinion, no less due to Homer, than that of invention. His story is 
all along conducted with great art. He rises upon us gradually ; his 
heroes are brought out, one after another, to be objects of our attention. 
The distress thickens, as the poem advances ; and every thing is so con- 
trived, as to aggrandize Achilles, and to render him, as the poet intend- 
ed he should be, the capital figure. 

But that wherein Homer excels all writers, is the characteristical 
part. Here he is without a rival. His lively and spirited exhibition of 
characters^ is, in a great measure, owing to his being so dramatic a 
writer, abounding every where with dialogue and conversation. There 
is much more dialogue in Homer than in Virgil ; or, indeed, than in any 
other poet. What Virgil informs us of by two words of narration, Ho- 
mer brings about by a speech. We may observe here, that this method 
of writing is more ancient than the narrative manner. Of this we have a 
clear proof in the books of the Old Testament, which, instead of narra- 
tion, abound with speeches, with answers and replies, upon the most fa- 
miliar subjects. Thus, in the book of Genesis : " Joseph said unto his 
brethren, Whence come ye? and they answered,From the land of Canaan 
we come to buy food. And Joseph said, Ye are spies ; to see the na- 
kedness of the land ye are come. And they said unto him, Nay, my 
lord, but to buy food are thy servants come; we are all one man's sons, 
we are true men, thy servants are no spies. And he said unto them, 
Nay, but to see the nakedness of the land ye are come. And they said. 
Thy servants are twelve brethren, the sons of one man in the land of 
Canaan ; and behold, the youngest is this day with our father ; and one 
is not. And Joseph said unto them, This is it that I spake unto you, 
saying, ye are spies. Hereby ye shall be proved ; by the life of Pha- 
raoh, ye shall not go forth hence, except your youngest brother come 
hither, &c." Genesis xlii. 7 — 15. Such a style as this, is the most sim- 
ple and artless form of writing ; and must, therefore, undoubtedly have 



LECT XLIII.] THE ILIAD OF HOMER. 433 

been the most ancient. It is copying directly from nature ; giving a 
plain rehearsal of what passed, or was supposed to pass, in conversation 
between the persons of whom the author treats. In progress of time, 
when the art of writing was more studied, it was thought more elegant 
to compress the substance of conversation into short distinct narrative, 
made by the poet or historian in his own person : and to reserve direct 
speeches for solemn occasions only. 

The ancient dramatic method which Homer practised, has some ad- 
vantages, balanced with some defects. It renders composition more 
natural and animated, and more expressive of manners and characters ; 
but withal less grave and majestic, and sometimes tiresome. Homer, it 
must be admitted, has carried his propensity to the making of speeches 
too far ; and if he be tedious any where, it is in these ; some of them 
trifling, and some of them plainly unseasonable. Together with the 
Greek vivacity, he leaves upon our minds some impression of the Greek 
loquacity also. His speeches, however, are, upon the whole, character- 
istic and lively ; and to them we owe, in a great measure, that admir- 
able display which he has given of human nature. Every one who reads 
him, becomes familiarly and intimately acquainted with his heroes. We 
seem to have lived among them, and to have conversed with them. Not 
only has he pursued the single virtue of courage, through all its different 
forms and features, in his different warriors ; but some more delicate 
characters, into which courage either enters not at all, or but for an 
inconsiderable part, he has drawn with singular art. 

How finely, for instance, has he painted the character of Helen, so 
as, notwithstanding her frailty and her crimes, to prevent her from being 
an odious object ! The admiration with which the old generals behold 
her, in the third book, when she is coming towards them, presents her 
to us with much dignity. Her veiling herself and shedding tears, her 
confusion in the presence of Priam, her grief and self-accusations at the 
sight of Menelaus, her upbraiding Paris for his cowardice, and, at the 
same time, her returning fondness for him, exhibit the most striking 
features of that mixed female character, which we partly condemn, and 
partly pity. Homer never introduces her without making her say some- 
thing to move our compassion : while, at the same time, he takes care 
to contrast her character with that of a virtuous matron, in the chaste 
and tender Andromache. 

Paris himself, the author of all the mischief, is characterized with the 
utmost propriety. He is, as we should expect him, a mixture of gal- 
lantry and effeminacy. He retreats from Menelaus, on his first appear- 
ance ; but, immediately afterward, enters into single combat with him. 
He is a great master of civility, remarkably courteous in his speeches, 
and receives all the reproofs of his brother Hector with modesty and 
deference. He is described as a person of elegance and taste. He 
was the architect of his own palace. He is, in the sixth book, found 
by Hector, burnishing and dressing up his armour ; and issues forth to 
battle with a peculiar gayety and ostentation of appearance, which is il- 
lustrated by one of the finest comparisons in all the Iliad, that of the 
horse prancing to the river. 

Homer has been blamed for making his hero Achilles of too brutal 
and unamiable a character. But I am inclined to think, that injustice is 
commonly done to Achilles upon the credit of two lines of Horace, who 
has certainly overloaded his character. 

I i i 



434 THE ILIAD OF HOMER. [LECT. XLIII. 

Impiger, Iracundus, inexorabilis, acer, 

Jura negat sibi nata ; nihil non arrogat armis. 

Achilles is passionate, indeed, to a great degree ; but he is far from 
being a contemner of laws and justice. In the contest with Agamem- 
non, though he carries it on with too much heat, yet he has reason on 
his side. He was notoriously wronged ; but he submits, and resigns 
Briseis peaceably, when the heralds come to demand her ; only, he will 
fight no longer under the command of a leader who has affronted him. 
Besides his wonderful bravery and contempt of death, he has several 
other qualities of a hero. He is open and sincere. He loves his sub- 
jects, and respects the gods. He is distinguished by strong friendships 
and attachments ; he is throughout, high spirited, gallant, and honour- 
able ; and allowing for a degree of ferocity which belonged to the 
times, and enters into the characters of most of Homer's heroes, he is, 
upon the whole abundantly fitted to raise high admiration, though not 
pure esteem. 

Under the head of characters, Homer's gods, or his machinery, ac- 
cording to the critical term, come under consideration. The gods make 
a great figure in the Iliad : much greater indeed than they do in the 
iEneid, or in any other epic poem ; and hence, Homer has become the 
standard of poetic theology. Concerning machinery in general, 1 de- 
livered my sentiments in the former lecture. Concerning Homer's 
machinery, in particular, we must observe, that it was not his own inven- 
tion. Like every other good poet, he unquestionably followed the 
traditions of his country. The age of the Trojan war approached to the 
age of the gods and demi-gods in Greece. Several of the heroes con- 
cerned in that war were reputed to be the children of these gods. Of 
course, the traditionary tales relating to them, and to the exploits of that 
age, were blended with the fables of the deities. These popular le- 
gends, Homer very properly adopted • though it is perfectly absurd to 
/infer from this, that therefore poets arising in succeeding ages, and 
writing on quite different subjects, are obliged to foUow the same system 
of machinery. 

In the hands of Homer, it produces, on the whole, a noble effect ; 
it is always gay and amusing ; often lofty and magnificent. It introduces 
into his poe'm a great number of personages, almost as much distin- 
guished by characters as his human actors. It diversifies his battles 
greatly, by the intervention of the gods ; and by frequently shifting the 
scene from earth to heaven, it gives an agreeable relief to the mind, in 
the midst of so much blood and slaughter. Homer's gods, it must be 
confessed, though they be always lively and animated figures, yet some- 
times want dignity. The conjugal contentions between Juno and Jupi- 
ter, with which he entertains us, and the indecent squabbles he describes 
among the inferior deities, according as they take different sides with the 
contending parties, would be very improper models for any modern poet 
to imitate. In apology for Homer, however, it must be remembered, 
that according to the fables of those days, the gods are but one remove 
above the condition of men. They have all the human passions. They 
drink and feast, and are vulnerable like men ; they have children and 
kinsmen in the opposite armies ; and except that they are immortal, that 
they have houses on the top of Olympus, and winged chariots, in which 
they are often flying down to earth, and then reaseending, in order to 
feast on nectar and ambrosia ; they are in truth no higher beings than 



LECT. XL1II.J THE ILIAD OF HOMER. 435 

the human heroes, and therefore very fit to take part in their contentions. 
At the same time, though Homer so frequently degrades his divinities, 
yet he knows how to make them appear, in some conjunctures, with the 
most awful majesty. Jupiter, the father of gods and men, is, for the 
most part, introduced with great dignity ; and several of the most sub- 
lime conceptions in the Iliad, are founded on the appearances of Neptune, 
Minerva, and Apollo, on great occasions. 

With regard to Homer's style and manner of writing, it is easy, natu- 
ral, and, in the highest degree animated. It will be admired by such 
only as relish ancient simplicity, and can make allowance for certain 
negligences and repetitions, which greater refinement in the art of 
writing has taught succeeding, though far inferior, poets to avoid. For 
Homer is the most simple in his style of all the great poets, and resem- 
bles most the style of the poetical parts of the Old Testament. They 
can have no conception of his manner, who are acquainted with him in 
Mr. Pope's translation only. An excellent poetical performance that 
translation is, and faithful in the main to the original. In some places, 
it may be thought to have even improved Homer. It has certainly sof- 
tened some of his rudenesses, and added delicacy and grace to some of 
his sentiments. But withal, it is no other than Homer modernized. In 
the midst of the elegance and luxuriancy of Mr. Pope's language, we 
lose sight of the old bard's simplicity. I know indeed no author, to 
whom it is more difficult to do justice in a translation, than Homer. As 
the plainness of his diction, were it literally rendered, would often ap- 
pear flat in any modern language ; so, in the midst of that plainness, and 
not a little heightened by it, there are every where breaking forth upon 
us flashes of native fire, of sublimity and beauty, which hardly any lan- 
guage, except his own, could preserve. His versification has been uni- 
versally acknowledged to be uncommonly melodious; and to carry, 
beyond that of any poet, a resemblance in the sound to the sense and 
meaning. 

In narration, Homer is, at all times, remarkably concise, which ren- 
ders him lively and agreeable ; though in his speeches, as I have before 
admitted, sometimes tedious. He is every where descriptive ; and de- 
scriptive by means of those welJ.-chosen particulars, which form the 
excellency of description. Virgil gives us the nod of Jupiter with great 
magnificence : 

Annuit; et totutn nutu tremefecit Olympum. 

But Homer, in describing the same thing, gives us the Sable eyebrows 
of Jupiter bent, and his ambrosial curls shaken, at the moment when he 
gives the nod ; and thereby renders the figure more natural and lively. 
Whenever he seeks to draw our attention to some interesting object, he 
particularizes it so happily, as to paint it in a manner to our sight. The 
shot of Pandarus's arrow, which broke the truce between the two 
armies, as related in the fourth book, may be given for an instance : and 
above all, the admirable interview of Hector with Andromache, in the 
sixth book ; where are all the circumstances of conjugal and parental ten- 
derness, the child affrighted with the view of his father's helmet and crest, 
and clinging to the nurse ; Hector putting off his helmet, taking the 
child into his arms, and offering up a prayer for him to the gods ; Andro- 
mache receiving back the child with a smile of pleasure, and at the same 
instant bursting into tears, tefwv ysheKrovW} as it is finely expressed in 



436 THE 0D1TSSEY OF HOMER. 

the original, form the most natural and affecting picture that can possibly 
be imagined. 

In the description of battles, Homer particularly excels. He works 
up the hurry, the terror, and confusion of them in so masterly a manner, 
as to place the reader in the very midst of the engagement. It is here, 
that the fire of his genius is most highly displayed ; insomuch, that Vir- 
gil's battles, and indeed those of most other poets, are cold and inanimated 
in comparison of Homer's. 

With regard to similes, no poet abounds so much with them. Several 
of them are beyond doubt extremely beautiful : such as those of the 
fires in the Trojan camp compared to the moon and stars by night ; 
Paris going forth to battle, to the war-horse prancing to the river ; and 
Euphorbus slain, to the flowering shrub cut down by a sudden blast ; 
all which are among the finest poetical passages that are any where to be 
found. I am not, however, of opinion, that Homer's comparisons, taken 
in general, are his greatest beauties. They come too thick upon us ; 
and often interrupt the train of his narration or description. The 
resemblance on which they are founded, is sometimes not clear; and 
the objects whence they are taken, are too uniform. His lions, bulls, 
eagles, and herds of sheep, recur too frequently ; and the allusions in 
some of his similes, even after the allowances that are to be made for 
ancient manners, must be admitted to be debasing.* 

My observations, hitherto, have been made upon the Iliad only. It 
is necessary to take some notice of the Odyssey also. Longinus's criti- 
cism upon it is not without foundation, that Homer may in this poem be 
compared to the setting sun, whose grandeur still remains without the 
heat of his meridian beams. It wants the vigour and sublimity of the 
Iliad ; yet, at the same time, possesses so many beauties, as to be justly 
entitled to high praise. It is a very amusing poem, and has much greater 
variety than the Iliad ; it contains many interesting stories, and beautiful 
descriptions. We see every where the same descriptive and dramatic 
genius, and the same fertility of invention that appears in the other work. 
It descends indeed from the dignity of gods, and heroes, and warlike 
achievements ; but in recompense, we have more pleasing pictures of 
ancient manners. Instead of that ferocity which reigns in the Iliad, the 
Odyssey presents us with the most amiable images of hospitality and 
humanity ; entertains us with many a wonderful adventure, and many a 

* The severest critic upon Homer in modern times, M. la Motte, admits all that 
his admirers urge for the superiority of his genius and talents as a poet : " C'etoit 
un genie naturellement poetique, ami des fables et des merveilleux, et porte en ge- 
neral a l'imitatien, soit des objets de la nature, soit des sentimens et des actions des 
hommes. II avoit l'esprit vaste et fecond ; plus eleve que delicat, plus naturel qu'in- 
genieux, et plus amoureux de l'abondance que du choix. — II a saisi, par une supe- 
riorite de gout, les premieres idees de l'eloquence dans toutes les genres ; il a parle la 
langage des toutes les passions ; et il a du moins ouvertaux ecrivains qui doivent le 
suivre une infinite de routes, qu'il ne restoit plus qu'a applanir. II y a apparence que 
en quelques temps qu' Homere eut vecu, ileut ete du moins, le plus grand Poete de 
son pais ; et a ne le prendre que dans ce sens, on peut dire, qu'il est le maitre de 
ceux memes qui 1'oht surpasse." — Discours sur Homere. Oeuvres de la Motte, Tome 
2de. After these high praises of the author, he indeed endeavours to bring the merit 
of the Iliad very low. But his principal objections turn on the debasing ideas which 
are there given of the gods, the gross characters and manners of the heroes, and the 
imperfect morality of the sentiments ; which, as Voltaire observes, is like accusing 
a painter for having drawn his figures in the dress of the times. Homer painted his 
gods, such as popular tradition then represented them ; and described such charac- 
ters and sentiments, as he found among those with whom he lived. 



LECT. XLIIL] THE JENEID OF VIRGIL. 437 

landscape of nature ; and instructs us by a constant vein of morality and 
virtue,twhich runs through the poem. 

At the same time, there are some defects which must be acknowledged 
in the Odyssey. Many scenes in it fall below the majesty which we 
naturally expect in an epic poem. The last twelve books, after Ulysses 
is landed in Ithaca, are, in several parts, tedious and languid ; and though 
the discovery which Ulysses makes of himself to his nurse, Euryclea, 
and his interview with Penelope before she knows him, in the nine- 
teenth book, are tender and affecting, yet the poet does not seem happy 
in the great anagnorisis, or the discovery of Ulysses to Penelope. She 
is too cautious and distrustful, and we are disappointed of the surprise 
of joy, which we expected on that high occesion. 

After having said so much of the father of epic poetry, it is now time 
to proceed to Virgil, who has a very marked character, quite distinct 
from that of Homer. As the distinguishing excellencies of the Iliad are 
simplicity and fire ; those of the iEneid are elegance and tenderness. 
Virgil is, beyond doubt, less animated and less sublime than Homer ; 
but to counterbalance this, he has fewer negligences, greater variety, 
and supports more of a correct and regular dignity, throughout his work. 

When we begin to read the Iliad, we find ourselves in'the region of 
the most remote, and even unrefined antiquity. When we open the 
iEneid, we discover all the correctness, and the improvements of the 
Augustan age. We meet with no contentions of heroes about a female 
slave ; no violent scolding, nor abusive language ; but the poem opens 
with the utmost magnificence ; with Juno, forming designs for prevent- 
ing iEneas's establishment in Italy, and iEneas himself, presented to us 
with all his fleet in the middle of a storm, which is described in the 
highest style of poetry. 

The subject of the iEneid is extremely happy ; still more so, in my 
opinion, than either of Homer's poems. As nothing could be more no- 
ble ; nor carry more of epic dignity, so nothing could be more flattering 
and interesting to the Roman people, than Virgil's deriving the origin of 
their state from so famous a hero as iEneas. The object was splendid 
in itself; it gave the poet a theme, taken from the ancient traditionary 
history of his own country ; it allowed him to connect his subject with 
Homer's stories, and to adopt all his mythology ; it afforded him the 
opportunity of frequently glancing at all the future great exploits of the 
Romans, and of describing Italy, and the very territory of Rome, in its 
ancient and fabulous state. The establishment of iEneas constantly 
traversed by Juno, leads to a great diversity of events, of voyages, and 
wars ; and furnishes a proper intermixture of the incidents of peace with 
martial exploits. Upon the whole, I believe, there is nowhere to be 
found so complete a model of an epic fable, or story, as Virgil's iEneid. 
I see no foundation for the opinion entertained by some critics, that the 
iEneid is to be considered as an allegorical poem, which carries a con- 
stant reference to the character and reign of Augustus Caesar ; or, that 
Virgil's main design in composing the iEneid, was to reconcile the Ro- 
mans to the government of that prince, who is supposed to be shadowed 
out under the character of iEneas. Virgil,* indeed, like the other poets 
of that age, takes ever J opportunity which his subject affords him, of 

* As particularly in that noted passage of the 6th book, 1. 791. 
Hie vir, hie est, tibi quern promitti seepius audis, &c. 



43S THE iENEID OF VIRGIL/ [LECT. XLIIL 

paying court to Augustus. But, to imagine that he carried a p&litical 
plan in his view, through the whole poem, appears to me no moie than 
a fanciful refinement. He had sufficient motives, as a poet, to determine 
him to the choice of his subject, from its being, in itself, both great and 
pleasing : from its being suited to his genius, and its being attended with 
the peculiar advantages which I mentioned above, for the full display of 
poetical talents. 

Unity of action is perfectly preserved ; as, from beginning to end, one 
main object is always kept in view,- the settlement of iEneas in Italy 
by the order of the gods. As the story comprehends the transactions 
of several years, part of the transactions are very properly thrown into 
a recital made by the hero. The episodes are linked with sufficient 
connexion to the main subject ; and the nodus, or intrigue of the poem, 
is, according to the plan of ancient machinery, happily formed. The 
wrath of Juno, who opposes herself to the Trojan settlement in Italy, 
gives rise to all the difficulties which obstruct iEneas's undertaking, and 
connects the human with the celestial operations, throughout the whole 
work. Hence arises the tempest which throws iEneas upon the shore 
of Africa ; the passion of Dido, who endeavours to detain him at Car- 
thage ; and the efforts of Turnus, who opposes him in war. Till, at 
last, upon a composition made with Jupiter, that the Trojan name shall 
be for ever sunk in the Latin, Juno foregoes her resentment, and the 
hero becomes victorious. 

In these main points, Virgil has conducted his work with great pro- 
priety, and shown his art and judgment But the admiration due to so 
eminent a poet, must not prevent us from remarking some other parti- 
culars in which he has failed. First, there are scarce any characters 
marked in the iEneid. In this respect it is insipid, when compared to 
the Iliad, which is full of characters and life. Achates, and Cloanthus, 
and Gyas, and the rest of the Trojan heroes, who accompanied iEneas 
into Italy, are so many undistinguished figures, who are in no way made 
known to us, either by any sentiments which they utter, or any memora- 
ble exploits which they perform. Even iEneas himself is not a very 
interesting hero. He is described, indeed, as pious and brave ; but his 
character is not marked with any of those strokes that touch the heart ; 
it is a sort of cold and tame character ; and throughout his behaviour to 
Dido, in the fourth book, especially in the speech which he makes after 
she suspected his intention of leaving her, there appears a certain hard- 
ness and want of relenting, which is far from rendering him amiable.* 
Dido's own character is by much the best supported in the whole iEneid. 
The warmth of her passions, the keenness of her indignation and re- 
sentment, and the violence of her own character, exhibit a figure greatly 
more animated than any other which Virgil has drawn. 

Besides this defect of character in the iEneid, the distribution and 
management of the subject are, in some respects, exceptionable. The 
iEneid, it is true, must be considered with the indulgence due to a work 
not thoroughly completed. The six last books are said not to have re- 
ceived the finishing hand of the author ; and for this reason, he ordered, 
by his will, the iEneid to be committed to the flames. But though this 
may account for incorrectness of execution, i^dces not apologize for a 
falling off in the subject, which seems to take place in the latter part 

* JNum fletu ingemuit nostro ? Num lumina flexit ? 
Num lachrymas victus dedit ? Aut rniseratus amantera est ? i£n. iv. 368. 



LECT. XLIIL] THE ^NEID OF VIRGIL, 43^} 

of the work. The wars with the Latins are inferior in point of dignity, 
to the more interesting objects which had before been presented to us, 
in the destruction of Troy, the intrigue with Dido, and the descent into 
hell. And in those Italian wars, there is, perhaps, a more material fault 
still, in the conduct of the story. The reader, as Voltaire has observed, 
is tempted to take part with Turnus against iEneas. Turnus, a brave 
young prince, in love with Lavinia, his near relation, is destined for her 
by general consent, and highly favoured by her mother. Lavinia herself 
discovers no reluctance to the match : when there arrives a stranger, a 
fugitive, from a distant region, who had never seen her, and who, 
founding a claim to an establishment in Italy upon oracles and prophecies, 
embroils the country in war, kills the lover of Livinia, and proves the 
occasion of her mother's death. Such a plan is not fortunately laid, 
for disposing us to be favourable to the hero of the poem ; and the 
defect might have been easily remedied, by the poet's making iEneas, 
instead of distressing Lavinia, deliver her from the persecution of- some 
rival who was odious to her, and to the whole country. 

But, notwithstanding these defects, which it was necessary to remark, 
Virgil possesses beauties which have justly drawn the admiration of 
ages, and which, to this day, hold the balance in equilibrium between 
his fame, and that of Homer. The principal and distinguishing excel- 
lency of Virgil, and which, in my opinion, he possesses beyond all poets, 
is tendernesss. Nature had endowed him with exquisite sensibility ; he 
felt every affecting circumstance in the scenes he describes ; and, by a 
single stroke, he knows how to reach the heart. This, in an epic poem, 
is the merit next to sublimity ; and puts it in an author's power to render 
his composition extremely interesting to all readers. 

The chief beauty of this kind, in the Iliad, is, the interview of Hector 
and Andromache. But, in the iEneid, there are many such. The se- 
cond book is one of-the greatest masterpieces that ever was executed by 
any hand ; and Virgil seems to have put forth there the whole strength 
of his genius, as the subject afforded a variety of scenes, both of the 
awful and tender kind. The images of horror, presented by a city 
burned and sacked in the night, are finely mixed with pathetic and affect- 
ing incidents. Nothing, in any poet, is more beautifully described than 
the death of old Priam ; and the family-pieces of iEneas, Anchises, and 
Creusa, are as tender as can be conceived. In many passages of the 
^neid, the same pathetic spirit shines ; and they have been always the 
favourite passages in that work. The fourth book, for instance, relating 
the unhappy passion and death of Dido, has been always most justly 
admired, and abounds with beauties of the highest kind. The interview 
of iEneas with Andromache and Helenus, in the third book j the episodes 
of Pallas and Evander, of Nisus and Euryalus, of Lausus and Mezentius, 
in the Italian wars, are all striking instances of the poet's power of 
raising the tender emotions. For we must observe, that though the 
iEneid be an unequal poem, and, in some places, languid, yet there are 
beauties scattered through it all ; and not a few y even in the last six books. 
The best and most finished books, upon the whole, are, the first, the 
second, the fourth, the sixth, the seventh, the eighth, and the twelfth. 

Virgil's battles are far inferior to Homer's in point of fire and subli- 
mity : but there is one important episode, the descent into hell, in which 
he has outdone Homer in the Odyssey, by many degrees. There is 
nothing in all antiquity equal, in its kind, to the sixth book of the 



440 THE PHAESALIA OF LLCAX [LLCT. XLIV 

JEneid. The scenery, and the objects, are great and striking ; and fill 
the mind with that solemn awe, which was to be expected from a view 
of the invisible world. There runs through the whole description, a 
certain philosophical sublime ; which Virgil's Platonic genius, and the 
enlarged ideas of the Augustan age, enabled him to support with a de- 
gree of majesty, far beyond what the rude ideas of Homer's age suffered 
him to attain. With regard to the sweetness and beauty of Virgil's 
numbers, throughout his whole works, they are so well known, that it 
were needless to enlarge in the praise of them. 

Upon the whole, as to the comparative merit of these two great 
princes of epic poetry, Homer and Virgil, the former must, undoubtedly, 
be admitted to be the greater genius ; the latter to be the more correct 
writer. Homer was an original in his art, and discovers both the 
beauties and the defects which are to be expected in an original au- 
thor, compared with those who succeed him ; more boldness, more 
nature and ease, more sublimity and force ; but greater irregularities 
and negligences in composition. Virgil has, all along, kept his eye upon 
Homer ; in many places, he has not so much imitated, as he has literally 
translated him. The description of the storm, for instance, in the first 
jEneid, and JEneas's speech upon that occasion, are translations from the 
fifth book of the Odyssey ; not to mention almost all the similes of 
Virgil, which are no other than copies of those of Homer. The pre- 
eminence in invention, therefore, must, beyond doubt, be ascribed to 
Homer. As to the pre-eminence in judgment, though many critics 
incline to give it to Virgil, yet in my opinion, it hangs doubtful. In 
Homer, we discern all the Greek vivacity ; in Virgil, all the Roman 
stateliness. Homer's imagination is by much the most rich and copious ; 
Virgil's the most chaste and correct. The strength of the former lies, 
in his power of warming the fancy ; that of the latter, in his power of 
touching the heart. Homer's style is more simple and animated ; Virgil's 
more elegant and uniform. The first has, on many occasions, a sublimity 
to which the latter never attains ; but the latter, in return, never sinks 
below a certain degree of epic dignity, which cannot so clearly be pro- 
nounced of the former. Not, however, to detract from the admiration 
due to both these great poets, most of Homer's defects may reasonably 
be imputed, not to his genius, but to the manners of the age in which he 
lived ; and for the feeble passages of the iEneid, this excuse ought to be 
admitted, that the iEneid was left an unfinished work. 



LECTURE XLIV. 



LUCAN'S PHAR3AL1A— TASSO'S JERUSALEM— CAMOENS'S LUSIAD— 
FENELON'S TELEMACHUS— VOLTAIRE'S HENRIADE— MILTON'S PA- 
RADISE LOST, 

After Homer and Virgil, the next great epic poet of ancient times, 
who presents himself, is Lucan. He is a poet who deserves our atten- 
tion, on account of a very peculiar mixture of great beauties with great 



LECT. XLlV.j THE PHARSALIA OF LUCA*. 444 

faults. Though his Pharsalia discover too little invention, and be 
conducted in too historical a manner, to be accounted a perfect regular 
epic poem, yet it were the mere squeamishness of criticism to exclude 
it from the epic class. The boundaries, as I formerly remarked, are 
far from being ascertained by any such precise limit, that we must refuse 
the epic name to a poem, which treats of great and heroic adventures, 
because it is not exactly conformable to the plans of Homer and VirgiL 
The subject of the Pharsalia carries, undoubtedly, all the epic gran- 
deur and dignity ; neither does it want unity of object, viz. the 
triumph of Caesar over the Roman liberty. As it stands at present, it is* 
indeed, brought to no proper close. But either time has deprived us 
of the last books, or it has been left by the author an incomplete work. 
Though Lucan's subject be abundantly heroic, yet I cannot reckon 
him happy in the choice of it. It has two defects. The one is, that 
civil wars, especially when as fierce and cruel as those of the Romans, 
present too many shocking objects to be tit for epic poetry, and give 
odious and disgusting views of human nature. Gallant and honourable 
achievements furnish a more proper theme for the epic muse. But 
Lucan's genius, it must be confessed, seems to delight in savage scenes ; 
he dwells upon them too much ; and not content with those which his 
subject naturally furnished, he goes out of his way to introduce a long 
episode of Marius and Sylla's proscriptions, which abounds with all the 
forms of atrocious cruelty. 

The other defect of Lucan's subject is, its being too near the times in 
which he lived. This is a circumstance, as I observed in a former lec- 
ture, always unfortunate for a poet ; as it deprives him of the assistance 
of fiction and machinery ; and thereby renders his work less splendid and 
amusing. Lucan has submitted to this disadvantage of his subject ; and 
in doing so, he has acted with more propriety, than if he had made an 
unseasonable attempt to embellish it with machinery ; for the fables of 
the gods would have made a very unnatural mixture with the exploits 
of Caesar and Pompey ; and instead of raising, would have diminished 
the dignity of such recent, and well-known facts. 

With regard to characters, Lucan draws them with spirit, and with 
force. But though Pompey be his professed hero, he does not succeed 
in interesting us much in his favour. Pompey is not made to possess 
any high distinction, either for magnanimity in sentiment, or bravery in 
action ; but on the contrary, is always eclipsed by the superior abilities 
of Caesar. Cato is, in truth, Lucan's favourite character ; and where- 
ver he introduces him, he appears to rise above himself. Some of the 
noblest and most conspicuous passages in the work, are such as relate to 
Cato ; either speeches put into his mouth, or descriptions of his beha- 
viour. His speech, in particular, to Labienus, who urged him to inquire 
at the oracle of Jupiter Ammon, concerning the issue of the war [book 
ix. 564,] deserves to be remarked, as equal, for moral sublimity, to any 
thing that is to be found in all antiquity. 

In the conduct of the story, our author has attached himself too 
much to chronological order. This renders the thread of his narration 
broken and interrupted, and makes him hurry us too often from place 
to place. He is too digressive also ; frequently turning aside from his 
subject, to give us, sometimes, geographical descriptions of a country 3 
sometimes philosophical disquisitions concerning natural objects 5 as 

K k k 



£46 THE PHARSALIA OF MJCAN. ; LECT. XLiV 

concerning the African serpents in the ninth book, and the sources of the 
Nile in the tenth. 

There are, in the Pharsalia, several very poetical and spirited de- 
scriptions. But the author's chief strength does not lie either in narra- 
tion or description. His narration is often dry and harsh ; his descrip- 
tions are often over-wrought, and employed too upon disagreeable objects. 
His principal merit consists iu his sentiments, which are generally noble 
and striking, and expressed in that glowing and ardent manner, which* 
peculiarly distinguishes him. Lucan is the most philosophical and the 
most public-spirited poet of all antiquity. He was the nephew of the 
famous Seneca, the philosopher : was himself a stoic ; and the spirit 
of that philosophy breathes throughout his poem. We must observe 
too, that he is the only ancient epic poet whom the subject of his poem 
really and deeply interested. Lucan recounted no fiction. He was a 
Roman, aud had felt all the direful effects of the Roman civil wars, and 
of that severe despotism which succeeded the loss of liberty. His high 
and bold spirit made him enter deeply into his subject, and kindle, on 
many occasions, into the most real warmth. Hence he abounds in excla- 
mations and apostrophes, which are, almost always, well-timed, and 
supported with a vivacity and fire that do him no small honour. 

But it is the fate of this poet, that his beauties can never be mentioned 
without their suggesting his blemishes also. As his principal excellency 
is a lively and glowing genius, which appears, sometimes in his descrip- 
tions, and very often in his sentiments, his great defect in both is, wan t 
of moderation. He carries every thing to an extreme. He knows not 
where to stop. From an effort to aggrandize his objects, he becomes 
tumid and unnatural ; and it frequently happens, that where the second 
line of one of his descriptions is sublime, the third, in which he meant to 
rise still higher, is perfectly bombast. Lucan lived in an age when the 
schools of the declaimers had begun to corrupt the eloquence and taste 
of Rome. He was not free from the infection ; and too often, instead of 
showing the genius of the poet, betrays the spirit of the declaimer. 

On the whole, however, he is an author of lively and original genius. 
His sentiments are so high, and his fire, on occasions, so great, as to atone 
for many of his defects ; and passages may be produced from him, 
which are inferior to none in any poet whatever. The characters, for 
instance, which he draws of Pompey and Cassar in the first book, are 
masterly ; and the comparison of Pompey to the aged decaying oak, is 
highly pGetical : 



■lotus popularibus auris 



Impelli, plausuque, sui gaudere theatri ; 

JNec reparare novas vires, multumque priori 

Credere fortuna?; stat magni nominis umbra?, 

Qualis frugifero quercus sublimis in agro, 

Exuvias veteres populi, sacrataque gestans 

Dona dncura ; nee jam validis radicibus barrens, 

Ponde-re fisa suo est ; nudosque per aera ramos 

Etfundens, trunco, non frondibus, efficit umbram. 

At quamvis primo nutet casura sub Euro, 

Et cireum sylvae firmo se rpbore tol'ant, 

Sola tamen colitur. Sed non in Caesare tantum 

Jsomen erat, nee fama ducis ; sed neseia virtus' 

Stare loco ; solusque pudor non vincere bello ; 

Aceret indomitus. s L. '. &2. 

"With gifts and liberal bounty sought for fame, 
And lov'd to hear the vulgar shout his name J 



SECT. XLIV.j TASSO'S JERUSALEM. 

But when we consider the whole execution of his poem, we are obliged 
to pronounce, that his poetical lire was not under the government of 
either sound judgment or correct taste. His genius had strength, but 
not tenderness ; nothing of what might be called amoenity, or sweetness. 
In his style • there is abundance of force ; but a mixture of harshness, 
and frequently of obscurity, occasioned by his desire of expressing him- 
self in a pointed and unusual manner. Compared with Virgil, he may 
be allowed to have more fire and higher sentiments, but in every thing 
else, falls infinitely below him, particularly in purity, elegance, and 
tenderness. 

As Statius, and Silius Italicus, though they be poets of the epic class, 
are too inconsiderable for particular criticism, I proceed next to Tasso, 
the most distinguished epic poet in modern ages. 

His Jerusalem Delivered, was published in the year 1574. It is a 
poem regularly and strictly epic in its whole construction ; and adorned 
with all the beauties that belong to that species of composition. The 
subject is, the Recovery of Jerusalem from the Infidels, by the united 
powers of Christendom ; which, in itself, and more especially according 
to the ideas of Tasso's age, was a splendid, venerable, and heroic en- 
terprise. The opposition of the Christians to the Saracens forms an 
interesting contrast. The subject produces none of those fierce and 
shocking scenes of civil discord, which hurt the mind in Lucan, but 
exhibits the efforts of zeal and bravery, inspired by an honourable 
object. The share which religion possesses in the enterprise both tends 
io render it more august, and opens a natural field for machinery and 
sublime description. The action too lies in a country r and at a period of 
time, sufficiently remote to allow an intermixture of fabuious tradition 
and fiction with true history. 

In the conduct of the story, Tasso has shown a rich and fertile 
invention, which, in a poet, is a capital quality. He is full of events ; 

In his own theatre rejoic'd to sit, 
Amidst the noisy praises of the pit. 
Careless of future ills that might betide, 
No aid he sought to prop his falling side, 
But on his former fortune much relied. 
Still seem'd he to possess, and fill his place ; 
But stood the shadow of what once he was. 
So, in the field with Ceres' bounty spread, 
Uprears some ancient oak his rev'rend head 
Chaplets, and sacred gifts his boughs adorn, 
And spoils of war by mighty heroes worn ; 
But the first vigour of his root now gone, 
He stands dependent on his weight alone ; 
All bare his naked branches are displayed, 
And with his leafless trunk he forms a shade. 
Yet though the winds his ruin daily threat, 
As every blast would heave him from his seat ; 
Though thousand fairer trees the field supplies, 
That rich in youthful verdure round him rise, 
Fix'd in his ancient seat, he yields to none, 
And wears the honours of the grove alone. 
But Cajsar's greatness, and his strength was more , 
Than past renown and antiquatedpower ; 
'Twas not the fame of what he once had been, 
Or tales in old records or annals seen ; 
But 'twas a valour, restless, unconfin'd, 
Which no success could state, nor limits bind : 
Twas shame, a soldier's shame, untaught to yield, 
That blush'd for nothing but an ill-fought field. Row*:. 



444 TASSO'S JERUSALEM, [LECT. XLIV. 

and those too, abundantly various, and diversified in their kind. He 
never allows us to be tired by mere war and righting. He frequently 
shifts the scene ; and, from camps and battles, transports ns to more 
pleasing objects. Sometimes the solemnities of religion ; sometimes 
the intrigues of love ; at other times, the adventures of a journey, or 
even the incidents of pastoral life, relieve and entertain the reader. At 
the same time, the whole work is artfully connected, and while there is 
much variety in the parts, there is perfect unity in the plan. The re- 
covery of Jerusalem is the object kept in view through the whole, and 
with it the poem closes. All the episodes, if w r e except that of Olinda 
and Sophronia, in the second book, on which I formerly passed a censure, 
are sufficiently related to the main subject of the poem. 

The poem is enlivened with a variety of characters, and those too 
both clearly marked and well supported: Godfre}', the leader of the 
enterprise, prudent, moderate, brave ; Tancred, amorous, generous, 
and gallant, and well contrasted with the fierce and brutal Argantes ; 
Rinaldo, (who is properly the hero of the poem, and is in part copied 
after Homer's Achilles) passionate and resentful, seduced by the allure- 
ments of Armida ; but a personage, on the whole, of much zeal, honour, 
and heroism. The brave and high minded Solyman, the tender Erminia, 
the artful and violent Armida, the masculine Clorinda — are all of them 
well drawn and animated figures. In the characteristical part, Tasso is 
indeed remarkably distinguished ; he is, in this respect, superior to 
Virgil ; and yields to no poet, except Homer. 

He abounds very much with machinery ; and in this part of the work 
bis merit is more dubious. Wherever celestial beings are made to 
interpose, his machinery is noble. God looking down upon the hosts, 
and, on different occasions, sending an angel to check the Pagans, and 
to rebuke the evil spirits, produces a sublime effect. The description 
of hell too, with the appearance and speech of Satan, in the beginning 
of the 4th book, is extremely striking ; and plainly has been imitated 
by JVIilton, though he must be allowed to have improved upon it. But 
the devils, the enchanters, and the conjurors, act too great a part through- 
out Tasso's poem ; and form a sort of dark and gloomy machinery, not 
pleasing to the imagination. The enchanted wood, on which the nodus, 
or intrigue of the poem, is made in a great measure to depend ; the 
messengers sent in quest of Rinaldo, in order that he may break the 
charm ; their being conducted by a hermit to a cave in the centre of 
the earth ; the wonderful voyage which they make to the fortunate 
islands, and their recovering Rinaldo from the charms of Armida and 
voluptuousness ; are scenes which, though very amusing, and described 
with the highest beauty of poetry, yet must be confessed to carry the 
marvellous to a degree of extravagance. 

In general, that for which Tasso is most liable to censure, is a certain 
romantic vein, which runs through many of the adventures and incidents 
of his poem. The objects which he presents to us are always great ; 
but, sometimes, too remote from probability. He retains somewhat of 
the taste of his age, which was not reclaimed from an extravagant admi- 
ration of the stories of knight-errantry ; stories, which the wild, but 
rich and agreeable imagination of Ariosto, had raised into fresh reputation. 
In apology, however, for Tasso, it may be said, that he is not more 
marvellous and romantic than either Homer or Virgil. All the differ- 
ence is, that in the one we find the romance of paganism, in the other, 
that of chivalry. 



1LECT,XLIV.J ORLANDO FURIOSO OF ARIOSTO, 445 

With all the beauties of description, and of poetical style, Tasso re- 
markably abounds. Both his descriptions, and his style, are much 
diversified, and well suited to each other. In describing magnificent ob- 
jects, his style is firm and majestic ; when he descends to gay and pleas- 
ing ones, such as Erminia's pastoral retreat in the seventh book, and 
the arts and beauty of Armida in the fourth book, it is soft and insinuat- 
ing. Both those descriptions, which 1 have mentioned, are exquisite in 
their kind. His battles are animated, and very properly varied in the 
incidents, inferior however to Homer's in point of spirit and fire. 

In his sentiments, Tasso is not so happy as in his descriptions. It is 
indeed rather by actions, characters, and descriptions, that he interests 
us, than by the sentimental part of the work. He is far inferior to Vir- 
gil in tenderness. When he aims at being pathetic and sentimental in 
his speeches, he is apt to become artificial and strained. 

With regard to points and conceits, with which he has often been re- 
proached, the censure has been carried too far. Affectation is by no 
means the general character of Tasso's manner, which, upon the whole, 
is masculine, strong, and correct. On some occasions, indeed, especially 
as I just now observed, when he seeks to be tender, he degenerates into 
forced and unnatural ideas ; but these are far from being so frequent or 
common as has been supposed. Threescore or fourscore lines re^ 
trenched from the poem, would fully clear it, I am persuaded, of all such 
exceptionable passages. 

With Boileau, Dacier, and the other French critics, of the last age, 
the humour prevailed of decrying Tasso ; and passed from them to 
some of the English writers. But one would be apt to imagine, they 
were not much acquainted with Tasso ; or at least they must have read 
him under the influence of strong prejudices. For to me it appears 
clear, that the Jerusalem is, in rank and dignity, the third regular epic 
poem in the world ; and comes next to the Iliad and iEneid. 

Tasso may be justly held inferior to Homer, in simplicity and in fire ; 
to Virgil, in tenderness ; to Milton, in daring sublimity of genius ; but 
to no other he yields in any poetical talents ; and for fertility of inven- 
tion, variety of incidents, expression of characters, richness of descrip- 
tion, and beauty of style, I know no poet, except the three just named, 
that can be compared to him, 

Ariosto, the great rival of Tasso in Italian poetry, cannot, with any 
propriety, be classed among the epic writers. The fundamental rule 
of epic composition is, to recount a heroic enterprise, and to form it 
into a regular story. Though there is a sort of unity and connexion in 
the plan of Orlando Furioso, yet instead of rendering this apparent to 
the reader, it seems to have been the author's intention to keep it out of 
view, by the desultory manner in which the poem is carried on, and the 
perpetual interruptions of the several stories before they are finished. 
Ariosto appears to have despised all regularity of plan, and to have cho- 
sen to give loose reins to a copious and rich, but extravagant fancy. At 
the same time, there is so much epic matter in the Orlando Furioso, that 
it would be improper to pass it by without some notice. It unites indeed 
all sorts of poetry ; sometimes comic and satiric ; sometimes light and 
licentious ; at other times, highly heroic, descriptive, and tender. What- 
ever strain the poet assumes, he excels in it. He is always master of 
his subject ; seems to play himself with it ; and leaves us sometimes 
at a loss to know whether he be serious, or in iest. He is seldom 



446 CASIGENS' LUSlAD. [LECT. XLIV. 

dramatic ; sometimes, but not often, sentimental ; but in narration 
and description, perhaps no poet ever went beyond him. He makes 
every scene which he describes, and every event which he relates, pass 
before our eyes ; and in his selection of circumstances, is eminently 
picturesque. His style is much varied, always suited to the subject, 
and adorned with a remarkably smooth and melodious versification. 

As the Italians make their boast of Tasso, so do the Portuguese of Ca- 
moens ; who was nearly cotemporary with Tasso, but whose poem was 
published before the Jerusalem. The subject of it is the first discove- 
ry of the East Indies by Vasco de Gama ; an enterprise splendid in its 
nature, and extremely interesting to the countrymen of Camoens, as it laid 
the foundation of their future wealth and consideration in Europe. The 
poem opens with V 7 asco and his fleet appearing on the ocean, between 
the island of Madagascar, and the coast of ^Ethiopia. After various 
attempts to land on that coast, they are at last hospitably received in the 
kingdom of Melinda. Vasco, at the desire of the king, gives him an ac- 
count of Europe, recites a poetical history of Portugal, and relates all the 
adventures of the voyage, which had preceded the opening of the 
poem. This recital takes up three cantos or books. It is well ima- 
gined ; contains a great many poetical beauties ; and has no defect, ex- 
cept that Vasco makes an unseasonable display of learning to the African 
Prince, in frequent allusions to the Greek and Roman histories. Vasco 
and his countrymen afterward set forth to pursue their voyage. The 
storms and distresses which they encounter ; their arrival at Calecut on 
the Malabar coast ; their reception and adventures in that country, and 
at last their return homewards, fill up the rest of the poem. 

The whole work is conducted according to the epic plan. Both the 
subject and the incidents are magnificent ; and, joined with some wild- 
ness and irregularity, there appear intbe execution much poetic spirit, 
strong fancy, and bold description ; as far as I can judge from transla- 
tions, without any knowledge of the original. There is no attempt to- 
wards painting characters in the poem ; Vasco is the hero, and the only 
f ersonage indeed that makes any figure. 

The machinery of the Lusiad is perfectly extravagant ; not only is 
it formed of a singular mixture of Christian ideas, and Pagan mytholo- 
gy ; but it is so conducted, that the Pagan gods appear to be the true 
deities, and Christ and the Blessed Virgin, to be subordinate agents. 
One great scope of the Portuguese expedition, our author informs us, 
is to propagate the Christian faith, and to extirpate Mahometanism. 
In this religious undertaking, the great protector of the Portuguese is 
Venus, and their great adversary is Bacchus, whose displeasure is ex- 
cited by Vasco's attempting to rival his fame in the Indies. Councils 
of the gods are held, in which Jupiter is introduced as foretelling the 
downfall of Mahometanism, and the propagation of the gospel. Vasco, 
in great distress from a storm, prays most seriously to God ; implores 
the aid of Christ and the Virgin, and begs for such assistance as 
was given to the Israelites, when they were passing through the Red 
Sea, and to the Apostle Paul, when he was in hazard of shipwreck. In 
return to this prayer, Venus appears, who discerning the storm to 
be the work of Bacchus, complains to Jupiter, and procures the 
winds to be calmed. Such strange and preposterous machinery shows 
how much authors have been misled by the absurd opinion that there 
could be no epic poetry without the gods of Homer. Towards the end 



LECT. XLlV'.j FENELON'S TELEMACHUS. 447 

of the work, indeed, the author gives us an awkward salvo for his whole 
mythology ; making the goddess Thetis inform Vasco, that she, and 
the rest of the heathen deities, are no more than names to describe the 
operations of Providence. 

There is, however, some fine machinery, of a different kind, in the 
Lusiad. The genius of the river Ganges appearing to Emanuel, King 
of Portugal, in a dream, inviting that Prince to discover his secret 
springs, and acquainting him, that he was the destined monarchfor whom 
the treasures of the East were reserved, is a happy idea. But the no- 
blest conception of this sort, is in the fifth Canto, where Vasco is re- 
counting to the King of Melinda, ail the wonders which he met with 
in his navigation. He tells him, that when the fleet arrived at the 
Cape of Good Hope, which never before had been doubled by any navi- 
gator, there appeared to them on a sudden, a huge and monstrous phan- 
tom rising out of the sea, in the midst of tempests and thunders, with a 
head that reached the clouds, and a countenance that filled them with ter- 
ror. This was the genius, or guardian, of that hitherto unknown ocean. 
It spoke to them with a voice like thunder ; menacing them, for invad- 
ing those seas which he had so long possessed undisturbed : and for 
daring to explore those secrets of the deep, which never had been 
revealed to the eye of mortals ; required them to proceed no farther ; if 
they should proceed, foretold all the successive calamities that were to 
befall them ; and then, with a mighty noise, disappeared. This is one 
of the most solemn and striking pieces of machinery that ever was em- 
ployed ; and is sufficient to show that Camoens is a poet, though of an 
irregular, yet of a bold and lofty imagination.* 

In reviewing the epic poets, it were unjust to make no mention of the 
amiable author of the Adventures of Telemachus. His work, though 
not composed in verse, is justly entitled to be held a poem. The mea- 
sured poetical prose, in which it is written, is remarkably harmonious; 
and gives the style nearly as much elevation as the French language is 
capable of supporting, even in regular verse. 

The plan of the work is, in general, well contrived ; and is defi- 
cient neither in epic grandeur, nor unity of object. The author has 
entered with much felicity into the spirit and ideas of the ancient poets, 
particularly into the ancient mythology, which retains more dignity, and 
makes a better figure in his hands, than in those of any other modem 
poet. His descriptions are rich and beautiful ; especially of the softer 
and calmer scenes, for which the genius of Fenelon was best suited ; such 
as the incidents of pastoral life, the pleasures of virtue, or a country 
flourishing in peace. There is an inimitable sweetness and tenderness 
in several of the pictures of this kind which he has given. 

The best executed part of the work, is the first six books, in which 
Telemachus recounts his adventures to Calypso. The narration, . 
throughout them, is lively and interesting. Afterward, especially in 
the last twelve books, it becomes more tedious and languid ; and in 
the warlike adventures which are attempted, there is a great defect of 
vigour. The chief objection against this work being classed with epic 
poems, arises from the minute details of $irtuous policy, into which 

* I have made no mention of the Araucana, an epic poem, in Spanish, compo- 
sed by Alonzo d'Ercilla, because I am unacquainted with the original language, and 
have not seen any translation of it. A full account of it is given by Mr. Hayley in 

the Notes upon his Essay on Epic Foetry. * 



448 VOLTAIRE'S HENRIADE. J LECT. XLiV, 

the author in some places enters ; and from the discourses and instruct 
tions of Mentor, which recur upon us too often, and too much in the 
strain of common-place morality. Though these were well suited to 
the main design of the author, which was to form the mind of a young 
prince, yet they seem not congruous to the nature of epic poetry ; the 
object of which is to improve us by means of actions, characters, and 
sentiments, rather than by delivering professed and formal instruction. 

Several of the epic poets have described a descent into hell ; and in 
the prospects they have given us of the invisible world, we may observe 
the gradual refinement of men's notions concerning a state of future 
rewards and punishments. The descent of Ulysses into hell, in Homer's 
Odyssey, presents to us a very indistinct and dreary sort of object.— 
The scene is laid in the country of the Cimmerians, which is always 
covered with clouds and darkness, at the extremity of the ocean. When 
the spirits of the dead begin to appear, we scarcely know whether Ulysses 
is above ground, or below it. None of the ghosts, even of the heroes, 
appear satisfied with their condition in the other world ; and when Ulys- 
ses endeavours to comfort Achilles, by reminding him of the illustrious 
figure which he must make in those regions, Achilles roundly tells him 
that all such speeches are idle ; for he would rather be a day-labourer 
on earth, than have the command of all the dead. 

In the sixth book of the iEneid, we discern a much greater refine- 
ment of ideas, corresponding to the progress which the world had then 
made in philosophy. The objects there delineated, are both more clear 
and distinct, and more grand and awful. The separate mansions of 
good and of bad spirits, with the punishments of the one, and the employ- 
ments and happiness of the other, are finely described ; and in consis- 
tency with the most pure morality. But the visit which Fenelon makes 
Telemachus pay to the shades is much more philosophical still than 
Virgil's. He employs the same fables and the same mythology ; but 
we find the ancient mythology, refined by the knowledge of the true 
religion, and adorned with that beautiful enthusiasm, for which Fenelon 
was so distinguished. His account of the happiness of the just is an 
excellent description in the mystic strain ; and very expressive of the 
genius and spirit of the author. 

Voltaire has given us in his Henriade, a regular epic poem, in French 
verse. In every performance of that celebrated writer, we may expect 
to find marks of genius ; and, accordingly, that work discovers, in seve- 
ral places, that boldness in the conceptions, and that liveliness and feli- 
city in the expression, for which the author is so remarkably distinguish- 
ed. Several of the comparisons, in particular, which occur in it, are 
both new and happy. But, considered upon the whole, I cannot esteem 
it one of his chief productions ; and I am of opinion, that he has suc- 
ceeded infinitely better in tragic than in epic composition. French 
versification seems ill adapted to epic poetry. Besides its being always 
fettered by rhyme, the language never assumes a sufficient degree of 
elevation or majesty ; and appears to be more capable of expressing the 
tender in tragedy, than of supporting the sublime iu epic. Hence a 
feebleness, and sometimes a prosaic flatness, in the style of the Henriade ; 
and whether from this, or from some other cause, the poem often lan- 
guishes. It does not seize the imagination : nor interest and carry the 
reader along, with that ardour which ought to be inspired by a sublime 
and spirited epic poem 



I. XLIV.j VOLTAIRE'S HENKIADK. g$g 

The subject of the Henriade is the triumph of Henry the Fourth 
over the arms of the League. The action of the poem, properly in- 
cludes only the siege of Paris. It is an action perfectly epic in its na- 
ture ; great, interestiug, and conducted with a sufficient regard to unity, 
smd all the other critical rules. But it is liable to both the defects which 
1 before remarked in Lucan's Pharsalia. It is founded wholly on civil 
• wars ; and presents to us those odious and detestable objects of massa- 
cres and assassinations, which throw a gloom over the poem. It is also, 
like Lucan's, of too recent a date, and comes too much within the bounds 
of well-known history. To remedy this last defect, and to remove the 
- appearance of being a mere historian, Voltaire has chosen to mix tiction 
with truth. The poem, for instance, opens with a voyage of Henrys 
to England, and an interview between him and Queen Elizabeth ; though 
every one knows that Henry never was in England, and that these two 
illustrious personages never met. In facts of such public notoriety, a 
fiction like this, shocks the reader, and forms an unnatural and ill-sorted 
mixture with historical truth. The episode was contrived, in order to 
give Henry an opportunity of recounting the former transactions of the 
civil wars, in imitation of the recital which iEneas makes to Dido in the 
iEneid. But the imitation was injudicious. iEneas might with proprie- 
v ty, relate to Dido, transactions of which she was either entirely igno- 
rant, or had acquired only an imperfect knowledge by flying reports. 
But Queen Elizabeth could not but be supposed to be perfectly apprised 
of all the facts, which the poet makes Henry recite to her. 

In order to embellish his subject, Voltaire has chosen to employ a 
great deal of machinery. But here also, I am obliged to censure his 
conduct ; for the machinery which he chiefly employs, is of the worst 
kind, and the least suited to an epic poem, that of allegorical beings. 
Discord, Cunning, and Love, appear as personages, mix with the human 
actors, and make a considerable figure in the intrigue of the poem. 
This is contrary to every rule of rational criticism. Ghosts, angels, and 
devils have popular belief on their side, and may be conceived as exist- 
ing. But every one knows, that allegorical beings are no more than 
representations of human dispositions and passions. They may be em- 
ployed like other personifications and figures of speech ; or in a poem, 
that is wholly allegorical, they may occupy the chief place. They are 
there in their native and proper region : but in a poem which relates, to 
human transactions, as I had occasion before to remark, when such 
beings are described as acting along with men, the imagination is con- 
founded ; it is divided between phantasms and realities, and knows not 
on what to rest. 1^/ _. j/L 

In justice, however, to our author, I must observe, that the machinery 
of St. Louis, which he also employs, is of a better kind, and possesses 
real dignity. The finest passage in the Henriade, indeed one of the 
finest that occurs in any poem, is the prospect of the invisible world, 
which St. Louis gives to Henry in a dream in the seventh canto.-— 
Death bringing the souls of the departed in succession before God ; 
their astonishment when, arriving from all different countries and reli- 
gious sects, they are brought into the Divine presence ; when they find 
their superstitions to be false, and have the truth unveiled to them ; 
the palace of the destinies opened to Henry, and the prospect of his 
successors which is there given him ; are striking and magnificent ob 
iects, and do honour to the genius of Voltaire. 

L 11 



450 MILTOJS'S TARADiSE LOST. [LECT. XLIV. 

Though some of the episodes in this poem are properly extended, 
yet the narration is, on the whole, too general ; the events are too much 
crowded, and superficially related ; which is doubtless one cause of 
the poem making a faint impression. The strain of sentiment which 
runs through it, is high and noble. Religion appears on every occasion 
with great and proper lustre : and the author breathes that spirit of hu- 
manity and toleration, which is conspicuous in all his works. 

Milton, of whom it remains now to speak, has chalked out for him- 
self a new and very extraordinary road in poetry. As soon as we open 
his Paradise Lost, we find ourselves introduced all at once into an invi- 
sible world, and surrounded with celestial and infernal beings. An- 
gels and devils are not the machinery, but principal actors in the poem j 
and what, in any other composition, would be the marvellous, is here 
only the natural course of events. A subject so remote from the affairs 
of this world, may furnish ground to those who think such discussions 
material, to bring it into doubt, whether Paradise Lost can properly be 
classed among epic poems. By whatever name it is to be called, it is, 
undoubtedly, one of the highest efforts of poetical genius ; and in one 
great characteristic of the epic poem, majesty and sublimity, it is fully 
equal to any that bear that name. 

How far the author was altogether happy in the choice of his subject,, 
may be questioned. It has led him into very difficult ground. Had he 
taken a subject that was more* human, and less theological ; that was 
more connected with the occurrences of life, and afforded a greater dis- 
play of the characters and passions of men, his poem would, perhaps, 
have to the bulk of readers, been more pleasing and attractive. But 
the subject which he has chosen, suited the daring sublimity of his ge- 
nius.* It is a subject for which Milton alone was fitted ; and in the 
conduct of it, he has shown a stretch both of imagination and invention, 
which is perfectly wonderful. It is astonishing how, from the few hints 
given us in the Sacred Scriptures, he was able to raise so complete and 
regular a structure ; and to fill his poem with such a variety of incidents. 
Dry and harsh passages sometimes occur. The author appears, upon 
some occasions, a metaphysician and a divine, rather than a poet. But 
the general tenor of his work is interesting ; he seizes and fixes the 
imagination ; engages, elevates, and affects us as we proceed ; which is 
always a sure test of merit in an epic composition. The artful change 
of his objects ; the scene laid now in earth, now in hell, and now ira 
heaven, affords a sufficient diversity ; while unity of plan is, at the same 
time, perfectly supported. We have still life, and calm scenes, in the 
employments of Adam and Eve in Paradise ; and we have busy scenes 
and great actions, in the enterprise of Satan, and the wars of the angels. 
The innocence, purity, and amiableness of our first parents, opposed to 
the pride and ambition of Satan, furnishes a happy contrast that reigns 
throughout the whole poem ; only the conclusion as I before observed, 
is too tragic for epic poetry. 

The nature of the subject did not admit any great display of charac- 

• ll He seems to have been well acquainted with his own genius, and to know 
ay hat it was that nature had bestowed upon him more bountifully than upon others : 
the power of displaying the vast, illuminating the splendid, enforcing the awful, dark- 
ening the gloomy, and aggravating the dreadful. He therefore chose a subject, on 
which too much could not be said ; on which he might tire his fancy without the 
censure of extravagance/' Dr. Johnson's Life of Milton. 



LECT. XLlV/j MILTON'S. PARADISE LOST. 4 g} 

ters ; but such as could be introduced, are supported with much pro- 
priety. Satan, in particular, makes a striking figure, and is, indeed, the 
best drawn character in the poem. Milton has not described him, such 
as we'suppose an infernal spirit to be. He has, more suitably, to his 
own purpose, given him a human, that is, a mixed character, not alto- 
gether void of some good qualities. He is brave and faithful to his 
troops. In the midst of his impiety, he is not without remorse. He is 
even touched with pity for our first parents ; and justifies himself in his 
desigtf against them, from the necessity of his situation. He is actuated 
by ambition and resentment, rather than by pure malice. In short, 
Milton's Satan is no worse than many a conspirator or factious chief, that 
makes a figure in history. The different characters of Belzebub, Mo- 
loch, and Belial, are exceedingly well painted in those eloquent speeches 
which they make, in the second book. The good angels, though always 
. described with dignity and propriety, have more uniformity than the in- 
fernal spirits in their appearance ; though among them too, the dignity 
of Michael, the mild condescension of Raphael, and the tried fidelity of 
Abdiel, form proper characteristical distinctions. The attempt io de- 
scribe God Almighty himself, and to recount dialogues between the Fa- 
t ther and the Son, was too bold and arduous, and is that wherein our poet, 
i '^as was to have been expected, has been most unsuccessful. With 
regard to his human characters, the innocence of our first parents, and 
their love, are finely and delicately painted. In some of his speeches 
to Raphael and to Eve, Adam is perhaps too knowing and refined for 
his situation:* £ve is more distinctly characterized. Her gentleness, 
modesty, and frailty, mark very expressively a female character 

Milton's great and distinguished excellence is, his sublimity. In this, 
perhaps, he excels Homer ; as there is no doubt of his leaving Virgil, 
and every other poet, far behind him. Almost the whole of the first 
and second books of Paradise Lost, are continued instances of the 
sublime. The prospect of hell and of the fallen host, the appear- 
ance and behaviour of Satan, the consultation of the infernal chiefs, and 
Satan's flight through chaos to the borders of this world, discover the 
most lofty ideas that ever entered into the conception of any poet. In 
the sixth book also, there is much grandeur, particularly in the appear- 
ance of the Messiah ; though some parts of that book are censurable ; 
and the witticisms of the devils upon the effect of their artillery, form 
an intolerable blemish. Milton's sublimity is of a different kind from 
that of Homer. Homer's is generally accompanied with fire and im- 
petuosity ; Milton's possesses more of a calm and amazing grandeur. 
Homer warms and hurries us along ; Milton fixes us in a state of asto- 
nishment and elevation. Homer's sublimity appears most in the descrip- 
tion of actions ; Milton's in that of wonderful and stupendous objects. 

But though Milton is most distinguished for his sublimity, yet there 
13 also much of the beautiful, the tender, and the pleasing, in many 
parts of his work. When the scene is laid in Paradise, the imagery is 
always of the most gay and smiling kind. His descriptions show an un- 
commonly fertile imagination ; and in his similes, he is, for the most 
part, remarkably happy. They are seldom improperly introduced ; 
seldom either low or trite. They generally present to us images taken 
from the sublime or the beautiful class of objects ; if they have any 
faults, it is their alluding too frequently to matters of learning, and to 
fables of antiquity. In the latter part of Paradise Lost, there must be 



DRAMATIC POETRY— TRAGEDY. 

Dramatic poetry has, among all civilized nations, been considered 
as a rational and useful entertainment, and judged worthy of careful and 
serious discussion. According as it is employed upon the light and the 
gay, or upon the grave and affecting incidents of human life, it divides 
itself into the two forms, of comedy or tragedy. But as great and serious 
objects command more attention than little and ludicrous ones ; as the 
fall of a hero interests the public more than the marriage of a private 
person ; tragedy has been always held a more dignified entertainment 
than comedy. The one rests upon the high passions, the virtues, crimes, 
and sufferings of mankind. The other on their humours, follies, and 
pleasures. Terror and pity are the great instruments of the former ; 
ridicule is the sole instrument of the latter. Tragedy shall therefore 
be the object of our fullest discussion. This and the following lecture 
shall be employed on it : after which I shall treat of what is peculiar to 
romedv. 



452 TRAGEDY. [LECT. XLV, 

confessed to be a falling off. With the fall of our first parents, Blilton's 
genius seems to decline. Beauties, however, there are in the concluding 
books, of the tragic kind. The remorse and contrition of the guilty 
pair, and their lamentations over Paradise, when they are obliged to 
leave ft, are very moving. The last episode of the angel's showing 
Adam the fate of his posterity, is happily imagined : but in many places, 
the execution is languid. 

Milton's language and versification have high merit. His style is full 
of majesty, and wonderfully adapted to his subject. His blank verse is 
harmonious and diversified, and affords the most complete example of 
the elevation, which our language is capable of attaining by the force 
of numbers. It does not flow like the French verse, in tame, regular, 
uniform melody, which soon tires the ear : but is sometimes smooth and 
flowing, sometimes rough ; varied in its cadence, and intermixed 
with discords, so as to suit the strength and freedom of epic composi- 
tion. Neglected and prosaic lines, indeed, we sometimes meet with : 
but, in a work so long, and in the main sol harmonious, these may be 
forgiven. 

On the whole, Paradise Lost is a poem that abounds with beauties of 
every kind, and that justly entitles its author to a degree of fame not in- 
ferior to any poet ; though it must be also admitted to have many ine- 
qualities. It is the lot of almost every high and daring genius, not to 
be uniform and correct. Milton is too frequently theological and meta- 
physical ; sometimes harsh in his language ; often too technical in his 
words, and affectedly ostentatious of his learning. Many of his faults 
must be attributed to the pedantry of the age in which he lived. He 
discovers a vigour, a grasp of genius, equal to every thing that is great ; 
if at sometimes he falls much below himself, at other times he rises above 
every poet, of the ancient or modern world. 



LECTURE XLV. 



HECT.XLV.j TRAGEDY. 



458 



Tragedy, considered as an exhibition of the characters and behaviour 
of men, in some of the most trying and critical situations of life, is a 
noble idea of poetry. It is a direct imitation of human manners and 
actions. For it does not, like the epic poem, exhibit characters by the 
narration and description of the poet ; but the poet disappears ; and the 

i personages themselves are set before us, acting and speaking what is 
'suitable'to their characters. Hence, no kind of writing is so great a 
trial of the author's profound knowledge of the human heart. No kind 
of writing has so much power, when happily executed, to raise the 
strongest emotions. It is, or ought to be, a mirror in which we behold 
ourselves, and the evils to which we are exposed ; a faithful copy of the 
human passions, with all their direful effects, when they are suffered to 
become extravagant. 

As tragedy is a high and distinguished species of composition, so also, 
in its general strain and spirit, it is favourable to virtue. Such power 
hath virtue happily over the human mind, by the wise and gracious 

■constitution of our nature, that as admiration cannot be raised in epic 
poetry, so neither in tragic poetry can our passions be strongly moved, 

$ unless virtuous emotions be awakened within us. Every poet finds, that 
it is impossible to interest us in any character without representing that 
character as worthy and honourable, though it may not be perfect ; and 
that the great secret for raising indignation, is to paint the person who is 
to be the object of it, in the colours of vice and depravity. He may, 
indeed, nay, he must, represent the virtuous as sometimes unfortunate, 
because this is often the case in real life ; but he will always study 

ptb engage our hearts in their behalf; and though they may be descri- 

l bed as unprosperous,yet there is no instance of a tragic poet represent- 
ing vice as fully triumphant and happy in the catastrophe of the piece. 
Even when bad men succeed in their designs, punishment is made al- 
ways to attend them ; and misery of one kind or other, is shown to be 
unavoidably connected with guilt. Love and admiration of virtuous 

, characters, compassion for the injured and the distressed, and indigna- 
tion against the authors of their sufferings, are the sentiments most gene- 
rally excited by tragedy. • And therefore, though dramatic writers may 
sometimes, like other writers, be guilty of improprieties, though they 
may fail of placing virtue precisely in the due point of light, yet no 
reasonable person can deny tragedy to be a moral species of composi- 
tion. Taking tragedies complexly, I am fully persuaded, that the im- 
pressions left by them upon the mind are, on the whole, favourable to 
virtue and good dispositions. And, therefore, the zeal which some pious 
men have shown against the entertainments of the theatre, must rest 
only upon the abuse of comedy ; which, indeed, has frequently been 
so great as to justify very severe censures against it. 

The account which Aristotle gives of the design of tragedy is, that 
it is intended to purge our passions by means of pity and terror. This 
is somewhat obscure. Various senses have been put upon his words, 
and much altercation has followed among his commentators. With- 
out entering into any controversy upon this head, the intention of 
tragedy may, 1, think, be more shortly and clearly defined, to im- 
prove our virtuous sensibility. If an author interests us in behalf of 
virtue, forms us to compassion for the distressed, inspires us with 
proper sentiments, on beholding the vicissitudes of life, and, by means 
of the concern which he raises for the misfortunes of others, leads us 



454 TRAGEDY. [LECT. XLV. 

to guard ' against errors in our own conduct, he accomplishes all the 
moral purposes of tragedy. 

In order to this end, the first requisite is, that he choose some moving 
and interesting story, and that he conduct it in a natural and probable 
manner. For we must observe, that the natural and the probable must 
always be the basis of tragedy ; and are infinitely more important there, I 
than in epic poetry. The object of the epic poet, is to excite our ad- 
miration by the recital of heroic adventures ; and a much slighter degree 
of probability is required when admiration is concerned, than when the 
tender passions are intended to be moved. The imagination, in the 
former case, is exalted, accommodates itself to the poet's idea, and can 
admit the marvellous, without being shocked. But tragedy demands a 
stricter imagination of the life and actions of men. For the end which it 
pursues is, not so much to elevate the imagination, as to affect the heart ; 
and the heart always judges more nicely than the imagination, of what 
is probable. Passion can be raised only by making the impressions 
of nature, and,of truth upon the mind. By introducing, therefore, any 
wild or romantic circumstances into his story, the poet never fails to 
check passion in its growth, and, of course, disappoints the main effect 
of tragedy. 

This principle, which is founded on the clearest reason, excludes 
from tragedy all machinery, or fabulous intervention of the gods. 
Ghosts have, indeed, maintained their place; as being strongly found- 
ed on popular belief, and peculiarly suited to heighten the terror of 
tragic scenes. But all unravellings of the plot which turn upon the 
interposition of deities, such as Euripides emploj^s in several of his 
plays, are much to be condemned : both as clumsy and inartificial, and 
as destroying the probability of the story. This mixture of ma- 
chinery, with the tragic action, is undoubtedly a blemish in the ancient 
theatre. 

In order to promote that impression of probability which is so ne- 
cessary to the success of tragedy, some critics have required, that 
the subject should never be a pure fiction invented by the poet, 
but built on real history or known facts. Such, indeed, were generally, 
if not always, the subjects of the Greek tragedians. But I cannot 
hold this to be a matter of any great consequence. It is proved by 
experience, that a fictitious tale, if properly conducted, will melt the 
heart as much as any real history. In order to our being moved, it , 
is not necessary, that the events related did actually happen, provided 
they be such, as might easily have happened in the ordinary course of 
nature. Even when tragedy borrows its materials from history, it mixes 
many a fictitious circumstance. The greatest part of readers neither 
know, nor inquire, what is fabulous or what is historical, in the subject. 
They attend only to what is probable, and are touched by events which 
resemble nature. Accordingly, some of the most pathetic tragedies are 
entirely fictitious in the subject : such as Voltaire's Zaire and Alzire, 
the Orphan, Douglas, the Fair Penitent, and several others. 

Whether the subject be of the real or feigned kind, that on which 
most depends for rendering the incidents in a tragedy probable, and 
by means of their probability affecting, is the conduct, or manage- 
ment of the story, and the connexion of its several parts. To regu- 
late this conduct, critics have laid down the famous rule of the three 
unities, the importance of which, it will be necessary to discuss. But 



m 



LECT. XLV.'J TRAGEDY, 4^5 

in order to do this with more advantage, it will be necessary, that we 
first look backwards, and trace the rise and origin of tragedy, which will 
give light to several things relating to the subject. 

Tragedy, like other arts, was, in its beginning, rude and imperfect. 
Among the Greeks, from whom our dramatic entertainments are derived r 
the origin of tragedy was no other than the song which was wont to be 
sung at the festival of Bacchus. A goat was the sacrifice offered to that 
god ; after the sacrifice, the priests, with the company that joined them, 
sung hymns in honour of Bacchus ; and from the name of the victim, 
rgcvyos a goat, joined with afo a song, undoubtedly arose the word tragedy. 
These hymns, or lyric poems, were sung sometimes by the whole 
company, sometimes by separate bands, answering alternately to each 
other ; making what we call a chorus, with its strophes and antistrophes. 
In order to throw some variety into this entertainment, and to relieve the 
singers, it was thought proper to introduce a person who, between the 
songs, should make a recitation in verse. Thespis, who lived about 
536 years before the Christian era, made this innovation ; and, as it was 
relished, iEschylus, who came 50 years after him, and who is properly 
the father of tragedy, went a step farther, introduced a dialogue between 
two persons, or actors, in which he contrived to interweave some inter- 
esting story, and brought his actors on a stage, adorned with proper 
scenery and decorations. AH that these actors recited, was called 
episode, or additional song ; and the songs of the chorus were made to 
relate no longer to Bacchus, their original subject, but to the story in 
which the actors were concerned. This began to give the drama a 
regular form, which was soon after brought to perfection by Sophocles 
and Euripides. It is remarkable in how short a space of time tragedy 
grew up among the Greeks, from the rudest beginnings to its most perfect 
state. For Sophocles, the greatest and most correct of all the tragic 
poets, flourished only 22 years after JEschylus, and was little more than 
70 years posterior to Thespis. 

From the account which I have now given, it appears, that the chorus 
was the basis or foundation of the ancient, tragedy. It was not an 
.ornament added to it ; or a contrivance designed to render it more 
perfect ; but, in truth, the dramatic dialogue was an addition to the 
chorus, which was the original entertainment. In process of time, the 
chorus, from being the principal, became only the accessory in tragedy j 
till at last, in modern tragedy, it has disappeared" altogether ; which forms 
the chief distinction between the ancient and the modern stage. 

This has given rise to a question, much agitated between the parti- 
sans of the ancients and the moderns, whether the drama has gained, 
or has suffered, by the abolition of the chorus. It must be admitted, 
that the chorus tended to render tragedy both more magnificent, and 
more instructive and moral. It was always the most sublime and poetical 
part of the work ; and being carried on by singing, and accompanied with 
music, it must, no doubt, have diversified the entertainment greatly, and 
added to its splendour. The chorus, at the same time, conveyed 
constant lessons of virtue. It was composed of such persons as might 
most naturally be supposed present on the occasion; inhabitants of 
the place where the scene was laid, often the companions of some 
of the principal actors, and, therefore, in some degree, interested in 
the issue of the action. This company, which in the days of Sophocles 



ii 



■Jjb 



TRAGEDY. [LECT. XLY 



was restricted to the number of fifteen persons, was constantly on the 
stage during the whole performance, mingled in discourse with the actors, 
entered into their concerns, suggested counsel and advice to them, mo- 
ralized on all the incidents that were going on, and during the intervals of 
the action, sung their odes, or songs, in which they addressed the gods, 
prayed for success to the virtuous, lamented their misfortunes, and 
delivered many religious and moral sentiments.* 

But notwithstanding the advantages which were obtained by means 
of the chorus, the inconveniences on the other side are so great as to 
render the modern practice of excluding the chorus, far more eligible 
upon the whole. For if a natural and probable imitation of human 
actions be the chief end of the drama, no other persons ought to be 
brought on the stage, than those who are necessary to the dramatic 
action. The introduction of an adventitious company of persons, who 
have but a slight concern in the business of the play, is unnatural in 
itself, embarrassing to the poet, and, though it may render the spectacle 
splendid, tends, undoubtedly, to render it more cold and uninteresting, 
because more unlike a real trasaction. The mixture of music, or song, 
on the part of the chorus, with the dialogue carried on by the actors, is 
another unnatural circumstance, removing the representation still farther 
from the resemblance of life. The poet, besides, is subjected to innu- 
merable difficulties, in so contriving his plan, that the, presence of the 
chorus during all the incidents of the play, shall consist with any proba- 
bility. The scene must be constantly, and often absurdly, laid in some 
public place, that the chorus may be supposed to have free access to it 
To many things that ought to be transacted in private, the chorus must 
ever be witness ; they must be the confederates of both parties, who 
come successively upon the stage, and who are, perhaps, conspiring 
against each other. In short, the management of a chorus is an 
unnatural confinement to a poet ; it requires too great a sacrifice of 
probability in the conduct of the action ; it has too much the air of a 
theatrical decoration, to be consistent with that appearance of reality, 
which a poet must ever preserve, in order to move our passions, 

* The office of the cborus is thus described by Horace : 

Actoris partes chorus, officiumque virile 

Defendat ; neu quid raedios intercinat actus, 

Quod non p>oposito conducat, et basreat apte, 

Ille bonis faveatque, et concilietur amicis, 

Et regat iratos, et amet peccare timentes : 

Hie dapes laudet mensae brevis ; ille salubrem 

Justitiam, legesque,et apertis otia portis. 

Ille tegat commissa ; deosque precetur, et oret 

Ut redeatmiseris,abeatfortunasuperbis. De Arte Poet. 193, 

The chorus must support an actor's part, 
Defend the virtuous, and advise with art : 




1*? 



Govern the choleric, and the proud appease 



And the short feasts of frugal tables praise 
Applaud the justice of well-govern 'd states, 
And peace triumphant with her open gates. 
Intrusted secrets let them ne'er betray, 
But to the righteous gods with ardour pray, 
That fortune, with returning smiles, may bless 
Afflicted worth, and impious pride depress 






•,*?" 
*•*< 



Yet let their songs with apt coherence join, 

Promote the plot, and aid the just design. Fjra v < is 



LECT. XLV.j TRAGEDY, 457 

The origin of tragedy among the Greeks, we have seen, was a choral 
song, or hymn, to the gods. There is no wonder, therefore, that on 
the Greek stage it so long maintained possession. But it may confi- 
dently, I think, be asserted, that if, instead of the dramatic dialogue 
having been superadded to the chorus, the dialogue itself had been 
the first invention, the chorus would, in that case, never have been 
thought of. 

One use, I am of opinion, might still be made of the ancient cho- 
rus, and would be a considerable improvement of the modern theatre ; 
if, instead of that unmeaning, and often improperly chosen music, with 
which the audience is entertained in the intervals between the acts, a 
chorus were then to be introduced, whose music and songs, though 
forming no part of the play, should have a relation to the incidents of 
the preceding act, and to tBe dispositions which those incidents are 
presumed to have awakened in the spectators. By this means the tone 
of passion would be kept up without interruption ; and all the good 
effects of the ancient chorus might be preserved, for inspiring proper 
sentiments, and for increasing the morality of the performance, without 
those inconveniences which arose from the chorus forming a constituent 
part of the play, and mingling unseasonably, and unnaturally, with the 
personages of the drama. 

After the view which we have taken of the rise of tragedy, and of the 
nature of the ancient chorus, with the advantages and inconveniences 
attending it, our way is cleared for examining, with more advantage, 
the three unities of action, place, and time, which have generally been 
considered as essential to the proper conduct of the dramatic fable. 

Of these three, the first, unity of action, is, beyond doubt, far the 
most important. In treating of epic poetry, I have already explained 
the nature of it ; as consisting in a relation which all the incidents intro- 
duced bear to some design or effect, so as to combine naturally into one 
whole. This unity of subject is still more essential to tragedy, than it 
is to epic poetry. For a multiplicity of plots, or actions, crowded into 
so short a space as tragedy allows, must, of necessity, distract the atten- 
tion, and prevent passion from rising to any height. Nothing, there- 
fore, is worse conduct in a tragic poet, than to carry on two independent 
actions in the same play ; the effect of which is, that the mind being 
suspended and divided between them, cannot give itself up entirely either 
to the one or the other. There may, indeed, be under-plots ; that is, 
the persons introduced may have different pursuits and designs ; but 
the poet's art must be shown in managing these so as to render them 
subservient to the main action. They ought to be connected with the 
catastrophe of the play, and to conspire in bringing it forward. If there 
be any intrigues which stand separate and independent, and which may 
be left out without affecting the unravelling of the plot, we may always 
conclude this to be a faulty violation of unity. Such episodes are not 
permitted here as in epic poetry. 

We have a clear example of this defect in Mr. Addison's Cato. The 
subject of this tragedy is the death of Cato ; and a very noble person- 
age Cato is, and supported by the author with much dignity. But all the 
love scenes in the play, the passion of Cato's two sons for Lucia, and 
that of Juba for Cato's daughter, are mere episodes ; have no connex- 
ion with the principal action, and no effect upon it. The author thought 
his subject too barren in incidents, and in order to diversify it, he has 

M m m 



458 1'RAGEDT. [LECT. XL\\ 

given us, as it were, by the by, a history of the amours that were going 
on in Cato's family ; by which he hath both broken the unity of his 
subject, and formed a very unseasonable junction of gallantry, with the 
high sentiments, and public spirited passions which predominate in other 
parts, and which the play was chiefly designed to display. 

We must take care not to confound the unity of the action with the 
simplicity of the plot. Unity and simplicity import different things in 
dramatic composition. The plot is said to be simple, when a small num- 
ber of incidents are introduced into it. But it may be implex, as the 
critics term it, that is, it may include a considerable number of persons 
and events, and yet not be deficient in unity ; provided all the incidents 
be made to tend towards the principal object of the play, and be pro- 
perly connected with it. All the Greek tragedies not only maintain unity 
in the action, but are remarkably simple in the plot ; to such a degree^ 
indeed, as sometimes to appear to us too naked, and destitute of inter- 
esting events. In the CEdipus Coloneus, for instance, of Sophocles, the 
whole subject is no more than this : (Edipus, blind and miserable, wan 
ders to Athens, and wishes to die there : Creon, and his son Polynices, 
arrive at the same time, and endeavour separately to persuade the old 
man to return to Thebes, each with a view to his own interest ; he will 
not go : Theseus, the king of Athens, protects him ; and the play ends 
with his death. In the Philoctetes of the same author, the plot or fable 
is nothing more than Ulysses, and the son of Achilles, studying to per- 
suade the diseased Philoctetes to leave his uninhabited island, and go with 
them to Troy ; which he refuses to do, till Hercules, whose arrows he 

(possessed, descends from heaven, and commands him. Yet these simple 
and seemingly barren subjects, are wrought up with so much art by 
Sophocles, as to become very tender and affecting. 

Among the moderns, much greater variety of events has been admitted 
into tragedy. It has become more the theatre of passion, than it was 
among the ancients. A greater display of characters is attempted ; more 
intrigue and action are carried on ; our curiosity is more awakened, and 
more interesting situations arise. This variety is, upon the whole, an 
improvement on tragedy ; it renders the entertainment both more ani- 
mated, and more instructive ; and when kept within due bounds, may 
be perfectly consistent with unity of subject. But the poet must, at the 
same time, beware of not deviating too far from simplicity, in the con- 
struction of his fable. For if he overcharges it with action and intrigue, 
it becomes perplexed and embarrassed ; and, by consequence, loses 
much of its effect. Congreve's " Mourning Bride," a tragedy, other- 
wise far from being void of merit, fails in this respect ; and may be given 
as an instance of one standing in perfect opposition to the simplicity of 
the ancient plots. The incidents succeed one another too rapidly. 
The play is too full of business. It is difficult for the mind to follow 
and comprehend the whole series of events ; and, what is the greatest 
fault of all, the catastrophe, which ought always to be plain and simple, 
is brought about in a manner too artificial and intricate. 

Unity of action must not only be studied in the general construction 
of the fable or plot, but must regulate the several acts and scenes, into 
which the play is divided. 

The division of every play into five acts, has no other foundation than 
common practice, and the authority of Horace • 



LECT XL TRAGEDY. 459 

Neve minor, neu sit quinto productior actu 

Fabula. — - De Arte Poet.*- 

It is a division purely arbitrary* There is nothing in the nature of the 
composition which fixes this number rather than any other ; and it had 
been much better if no such number had been ascertained, but every 
play had been allowed to divide itself into as many parts, or intervals, 
as the subject naturally pointed out. On the Greek stage, whatever 
may have been the case on the Roman, the division by acts was totally 
unknown. The word act never once occurs in Aristotle's Poetics, in 
which he defines exactly every part of the drama, and divides it into the 
beginning, the middle, and the end ; or in his own words, into the pro- 
logue, the episode, and the exode. The Greek tragedy was, indeed, 
one continued representation, from beginning to end. The stage was 
never empty, nor the curtain let fall. But, at certain intervals, when 
the actors retired, the chorus continued and sung. Neither do these 
songs of the chorus divide the Greek tragedies into five portions, similar 
to our acts ; though some of the commentators have endeavoured to 
force them into this office. But it is plain, that the intervals at which the 
chorus sung, are extremely unequal and irregular, suited to the occasion 
and the subject ; and would divide the play, sometimes into three, some- 
times into seven or eight acts.j 

As practice has now established a different plan on the modern stage d 
has divided every play into five acts, and made a total pause in the re- 
presentation at the end of each act, the poet must be careful that this 
pause shall fall in a proper place ; where there is a natural pause in the 
action ; and where, if the imagination has any thing to supply, that is not 
represented on the stage, it may be supposed to have been transacted 
during the interval. 

The first act ought to contain a clear exposition of the subject. It 
ought to be so managed as to awaken the curiosity of the spectators 5 
and at the same time, to furnish them with materials for understanding 
the sequeh It should make them acquainted with the personages who 
are to appear, with their several views and interests, and with the situ- 
ation of affairs at the time when the play commences. A striking intro- 
duction, such as the first speech of Almeria, in the Mourning Bride, 
and that of Lady Randolph, in Douglas, produces a happy effect ; but 
this is what the subject will not always admit. In the ruder times of 
dramatic writing, the exposition of the subject was wont to be made by a 
prologue, or by a single actor appearing, and giving full and direct infor- 
mation to the spectators. Some of JEschylus's and Euripides's plays are 
opened in this manner. But such an introduction is extremely inartificial., 
and therefore, is now totally abolished, and the subject made to open itself 
by conversation, among the first actors who are brought upon the stage. 

During the course of the drama, in the second, third, and fourth acts 3 
the plot should gradually thicken. The great object which the poet 
ought here to have in view, is, by interesting us in his story, to keep 
our passions always awake. As soon as he allows us to languish, there 
is no more tragic merit. He should, therefore, introduce no personages, 
but such as are necessary for carrying on the action. He should con= 

If you would have your play deserve success, 

Give it five acts complete, nor more, nor less. Frakgi& 

i ?:ee the dissertation prefixed, to Franklin's translation of Sophocles, 



460 



TRAGEDY, fLfcCT. XLV, 



trive to place those whom he finds it proper to introduce, in the most 
interesting situations. He should have no scenes of idle conversation, 
or mere declamation. The action of the play ought to be always ad- 
vancing ; and as it advances, the suspense, and the concern of the spec- 
tators, to be raised more and more. This is the great excellency of 
Shakspeare, that his scenes are full of sentiment and action, never of 
mere discourse ; whereas, it is often a fault of the best French tragedi- 
ans, that they allow the action to languish for the sake of along and art- 
ful dialogue. Sentiment, passion, pity, and terror, should reign through- 
out a tragedy. Every thing should be full of movements. A useless 
incident, or an unnecessary conversation, weakens the interest which we 
take in the action, and renders us cold and inattentive. 

The fifth act is the seat of the catastrophe, or the unravelling of the 
plot, in which we always expect the art and genius of the poet to be 
most fully displayed. The first rule concerning it is, that it be brought 
about by probable and natural means. Hence all unravellings which 
turn upon disguised habits, rencounters by night, mistakes of one person 
for another, and other such theatrical and romantic circumstances, are 
to be condemned as faulty. In the next place, the catastrophe ought 
always to be simple ; to depend on few events, and to include but few 
persons. Passion never rises so high when it is divided among many 
objects, as when it is directed towards one or a few. And it is still more 
checked, if the incidents be so complex and intricate, that the under- 
standing is put on the stretch to trace them, when the heart should be 
wholly delivered up to emotion. The catastrophe of the Mourning Bride? 
as I formerly hinted, offends against both these rules. In the last place, 
the catastrophe of a tragedy ought to be the reign of pure sentiment 
and passion. In proportion as it approaches, every thing should warm 
and glow. No long discourses ; no cold reasonings ; no parade of ge- 
nius, in the midst of those solemn and awful events, that close some of the 
great revolutions of human fortune. There, if any where, the poet 
must be simple, serious, pathetic ; and speak no language but that of 
nature. 

The ancients were fond of unravellings, which turned upon what is- 
called an " Anagnorisis," or a discovery of some person to be different 
from what he was taken to be. When such discoveries are artfully Con- 
ducted, and produced in critical situations, they are extremely striking ; 
such as that famous one in Sophocles, which makes the whole subject 
of his (Edipus Tyrannus, and which is, undoubtedly, the fullest of sus- 
pense, agitation, and terror, that ever was exhibited on any stage. 
Among the moderns, two of the most distinguished Anagnorisis, are 
those contained in Voltaire's Merope, and Mr. Home's Douglas ; both 
of which, are great masterpieces of the kind. 

It is not essential to the catastrophe of a tragedy, that it should end 
unhappily. In the course of the play, there may be sufficient agitation 
and distress, and many tender emotions raised by the sufferings and 
dangers of the virtuous, though in the end, good men are rendered sue- 
cessful. The tragic spirit, therefore, does not want scope upon this 
system ; and, accordingly, the Athalie of Racine, and some of Voltaire's 
finest plays, such as Alzire, Merope, and the Orphan of China, with 
some few- English tragedies likewise, had a fortunate conclusion. But, 
in general, the spirit of tragedy, especially of English tragedy,, lepras 



LECT. XLV.J TRAGEDY, . £$| 

more to the side of leaving the impression of virtuous sorrow full and 
strong upon the heart. 

A question intimately connected with this subject, and which has em- 
ployed the speculations of several philosophical critics, naturally occurs 
here ; how it comes to pass that those emotions of sorrow which tragedy 
excites, afford any gratitication to the mind ? For, is not sorrow, in its 
nature, a painful passion ? Is not real distress often occasioned to the 
spectators, by the dramatic representations at which they assist ? Do 
we not see their tears flow ? and yet, while the impression of what they 
have suffered remains upon their minds, they again assemble in crowds 
to renew the same distresses. The question is not without difficulty, 
and various solutions of it have been proposed by ingenious men.* The 
most plain and satisfactory account of the matter appears to me to be 
the following. By the wise and gracious constitution of our nature, the 
exercise of all the social passions is attended with pleasure. Nothing 
is more pleasing and grateful, than love and friendship. Whenever man 
takes a strong interest in the concerns of his fellow-creatures, an inter- 
nal satisfaction is made to accompany the feeling. Pity, or compassion , 
in particular, is, for wise ends, appointed to be one of the strongest in- 
stincts of our frame, and is attended with a peculiar attractive power. 
It is an affection which cannot but be productive of some distress, on 
account of the sympathy with the sufferers, which it necessarily involves. 
But as it includes benevolence and friendship, it partakes, at the same 
time, of the agreeable and pleasing nature of those reflections. The 
heart is warmed by kindness and humanity, at the same time at which 
it is afflicted by the distresses of those with whom it sympathizes, and 
the pleasure arising from those kind emotions, prevails so much in the 
mixture, and so far counterbalances the pain, as to render the state of 
the mind, upon the whole, agreeable. At the same time, the immediate 
pleasure, which always goes along with the operation of the benevolent 
and sympathetic affections, derives an addition from the approbation of 
our own minds. We are pleased with ourselves, for feeling as we ought, 
and for entering with proper sorrow into the concerns of the afflicted. 
In tragedy, besides, other adventitious circumstances concur to diminish 
the painful part of sympathy, and to increase the satisfaction attending 
it. We are, in some measure, relieved, by thinking that the cause of our 
distress is feigned, not real ; and we are also gratified by the charms 
of poetry, the propriety of sentiment and language, and the beauty of 
action. From the concurrence of these causes, the pleasure which we 
receive from tragedy, notwithstanding the distress it occasions, seems to 
me to be accounted for in a satisfactory manner. At the same time, 
it is to be observed, that, as there is always a mixture of pain in the 
pleasure, that pain is capable of being so much heightened, by the repre- 
sentation of incidents extremely direful, as to shock our feelings, and to 
render us averse, either to the reading of such tragedies, or to the be- 
holding of them upon the stage. 

Having now spoken of the conduct of the subject throughout the acts> 
it is also necessary to take notice of the conduct of the several scenes 
which make up the acts of a play. 

: See Dr. Campbell's Philosophy of Rhetoric, Book 1. ch. xi. where an account is 
given of the hypotheses of different critics on this subject; and where one is pro- 
posed, with which,' in the main, I agree. — See also Lord Kaime/s Essays on the 
Principles of Morality, Essay r. And Mr- David Hume's Essay on Tragedy. 



TRAGEDY, [LECT. XLY, 

The entrance of a new personage upon the stage, forms what is call 
ed a new scene. These scenes, or successive conversations, should 
be closely linked and connected with each other ; and much of the art 
of dramatic composition is shown in maintaining this connexion. Two 
rules are necessary to be observed for this purpose. 

The first is, that, during the course of one act, the stage should 
never be left vacant, though but for a single moment ; that is, all the 
persons who have appeared in one scene, or conversation, should never 
go off together and be succeeded by a new set of persons appearing in 
the next scene, independent of the former. This makes a gap, or total 
interruption in the representation, which, in effect, puts an end to that 
act. For, whenever the stage is evacuated, the act is closed. This 
rule is, very generally, observed by the French tragedians ; but the 
English writers, both of comedy and tragedy, seldom pay any regard 
to it. Their personages succeed one another upon the stage with so 
little connexion ; the union of their scenes is so much broken, that, 
with equal propriety, their plays might be divided into ten or twelve 
acts, as into five. 

The second rule which the English writers also observe little better 
than the former, is, that no person shall come upon the stage, or leave 
it, without a reason appearing to us ; both for the one and the other- 
Nothing is more awkward, and contrary to art, than for an actor to enter ? 
without our seeing any cause for his appearing in that scene, except that 
it was for the poet's purpose he should enter precisely at such a moment ; 
as for an actor to go away, without any reason for his retiring, farther 
than that the poet had no more speeches to put into his mouth. This is 
managing the personae dramatis exactly like so many puppets, who are 
moved by wires, tc answer the call of the master of the show. Where- 
as the perfection of dramatic writing requires that every thing should 
be conducted in imitation, as near as possible, of some real transaction ; 
where we are let into the secret of all that is passing ; where we behold 
persons before us, always busy ;v see them coming and going ; and know 
perfectly whence they come, and whither they go, and about what they 
are employed. 

All that I have hitherto said, relates to the unity of the dramatic 
action. In order to render the unity of action more complete, critics 
have added the other two unities of time and place. The strict obser- 
vance of these is more difficult, and, perhaps, not so necessary. The 
unity of place requires, that the scene should never be shifted ; but that 
the action of the play should be continued to the end, in the same place 
where it is supposed to begin. The unity of time, strictly taken, re- 
quires, that the time of the action be no longer than the time that is 
allowed for the representation of the play ; though Aristotle seems to 
have given the poet a little more liberty, and permitted the action to 
comprehend the whole time of one day. 

The intention of both these rules is, to overcharge as little as possi- 
ble, the imagination of the spectators with improbable circumstances in 
the acting' of the play, and to bring the imitation more close to reality. 
We must observe, that the nature of dramatic exhibitions upon the 
Grreek stage, subjected the ancient tragedians to a more strict observance 
of these unities than is necessary in modern theatres. I showed that a 
Greek tragedy was one uninterrupted representation, from beginning to 
<*r\f\. There was no division of acts : no pauses or interval between 



LECT. XL V/j TRAGEDY, 463 

them ; but the stage was continually full ; occupied either by the actors , 
or the chorus. Hence, no room was left for the imagination to go be- 
yond the precise time and place of the representation ; any more than is 
allowed during the continuance of one act, on the modern theatre. 

But the practice of suspending the spectacle totally for some little 
time between the acts, has made a great and material change ; gives 
more latitude to the imagination, and renders the ancient strict confine- 
ment to time and place less necessary. While the acting of the play is 
interrupted, the spectator can, without any great or violent effort, 
suppose a few hours to pass between every act ; or can suppose himseli 
moved from one apartment of a palace, or one part of a city to another : 
and, therefore, too strict an observance of these unities ought not to be 
preferred to higher beauties of execution, nor to the introduction of 
more pathetic situations, which sometimes cannot be accomplished in any 
other way, than by the transgression of these rules, 

On the ancient stage, we plainly see the poets struggling with many 
an inconvenience, in order to preserve those unities which were then so 
necessary. As the scene could never be shifted, they were obliged to 
make it always lie in some court of a palace, or some public area, to 
which all the persons concerned in the action might have equal ac- 
cess. This led to frequent improbabilities, by representing things as 
transacted there, which naturally ought to have been transacted before 
few witnesses, and in private apartments. The like improbabilities arose, 
from limiting themselves so much in point of time. Incidents were un- 
naturally crowded ; and it is easy to point out several instances in the 
Greek tragedies, where events are supposed to pass during a song of the 
chorus which must necessarily have employed many hours. 

But though it seems necessary to set modern poets free from a strict 
observance of these dramatic unities, yet we must remember there are 
certain bounds to this liberty. Frequent and wild changes of time and 
place ; hurrying the spectator from one distant city, or country, to an- 
other; or making several days or weeks to pass during the course of 
the representation, are liberties which shock the imagination, which give 
to the performance a romantic and unnatural appearance, and, therefore, 
cannot be allowed in any dramatic writer who aspires to correctness, 
In particular, we must remember, that it is only between the acts, that 
any liberty can be given for going beyond the unities of time and place. 
During the course of each act, they ought to be strictly observed ; that 
is, during each act the scene should continue the same, and no more 
time should be supposed to pass, than i& employed in the representation 
of that act. This is a rule which the French tragedians regularly ob- 
serve. To violate this rule, as is too often done by the English ; to 
change the place, and shift the scene in the midst of one act, shows great 
incorrectness, and destroys the whole intention of the division of a play 
into acts. Mr. Addison's Cato, is remarkable beyond most English tra- 
gedies, for regularity of conduct. The author has limited himself, in 
time, to a single day ; and in place, has maintained the most rigorous 
unity. The scene is never changed ; and the whole action passes in 
the hall of Cato's house, at Utica. 

In general, the nearer a poet can bring the dramatic represen- 
tation, in all its circumstances, to an imitation of nature and real life, 
the impression which he makes on us will always be the more perfect. 
Probability, as I observed at the beginning of the lecture, is highly es- 



464 ' TRAGEDY. L LEOX. XLVL 

sential to the conduct of the tragic action, and we are always hurt by 
the want of it. It is this that makes the observance of the dramatic uni- 
ties to be of consequence, as far as they can be observed without sacri- 
ficing more material beauties. It is not, as has been sometimes said, 
that by the preservation of the unities of time and place, spectators, 
when they assist at the theatre, are deceived into a belief of the reality 
of the objects which are there set before them ; and that, when those 
unities are violated, the charm is broken, and they discover the whole 
to be a fiction. No such deception as this can ever be accomplished. 
No one ever imagines himself to be at Athens, or Rome, when a ( Greek 
or Roman subject is presented on the stage. He knows the whole to 
be an imitation only ; but he requires that imitation to be conducted with 
skill and verisimilitude. His pleasure, the entertainment which he ex- 
pects, the interest which he is to take in the story, all depend on its being 
go conducted. His imagination, therefore, seeks to aid the imitation, 
and to rest on the probability ; and the poet, who shocks him by impro- 
bable circumstances, and by awkward unskilful imitation, deprives him 
of his pleasure, and leaves him hurt and displeased.— This the whole 
mvstery of the theatrical allusion. 



LECTURE XLVL 



TRAGEDY— GREEK, FRENCH, ENGLISH TRAGEDY, 

Having treated of the dramatic action in tragedy, I proceed now to 
treat of the characters most proper to be exhibited. It has been 
thought, by several critics, that the nature of tragedy requires the prin- 
cipal personages to be always of illustrious character, and of high, or 
princely rank ; whose misfortunes and sufferings, it is said, take faster 
hold of the imagination, and impress the heart more forcibly, than simi- 
lar events happening to persons in private life. But this is more spe- 
cious than solid. It is refuted by facts. For the distresses of Desde- 
mona, Monimia, and Belvidera, interest us as deeply as if they had been 
princesses or queens. The dignity of tragedy does, indeed, require, 
that there should be nothing degrading, or mean, in the circumstances 
of the persons which it exhibits ; but it requires nothing more. Their 
high rank may render the spectacle more splendid, and the subject 
seemingly of more importance, but conduces very little to its being in- 
teresting or pathetic ; which depends entirely on the nature of the tale, 
on the art of the poet in conducting it, and on the sentiments to which 
it gives occasion. In every rank of life, the relations of father, hus- 
band, son, brother, lover, or friend, lay the foundation of those affecting 
situations, which make man's heart feel for man. 

The moral characters of the persons represented, are of much greater 
consequence than the external circumstances in which the poet places 
them. Nothing, indeed, in the conduct of tragedy, demands a poet's 
attention more than so to describe his personages, and so to order the 
incidents which relate to them, as shall leave upon the spectators, im- 
pressions favourable to virtue, and to the administration of Providence* 



LECT. XLV'I/j TKAGEBY. 4^ 

It is not necessary for this end, that poetical justice, as it is called, should 
be observed in the catastrophe of the piece. This has been long ex- 
ploded from tragedy^ ; the end of which is, to affect us with pity for the 
virtuous in distress, and to afford a probable representation of the state 
of human life, where calamities often befall the best, and a mixed por- 
tion of good and evil is appointed for all. But, withal, the author must 
beware of shocking our minds with such representations of life as tend 
to raise horror, or to render virtue an object of aversion. Though 
innocent persons suffer, their sufferings ought to be attended with such 
circumstances as shall make virtue appear amiable and venerable ; and 
shall render their condition, on the whole, preferable to that of bad 
men, who have prevailed against them. The stings and the remorse 
of guilt must ever be represented as productive of greater miseries than 
any that the bad can bring upon the good. 

Aristotle's observations on the characters proper for tragedy, are 
very judicious. He is of opinion that perfect unmixed- characters, 
either of good or ill men, are not the fittest to be introduced. The 
distresses of the one beiDg wholly unmerited, hurt and shock us; and 
the sufferings of the other, occasion no pity. Mixed characters, such as 
in fact we meet with in the world, afford the most proper field for dis- 
playing, without any bad effect on morals, the vicissitudes of life ; and 
they interest us the more deeply, as they display emotions and passions 
which we have all been conscious of. When such persons fall into 
distress through the vices of others, the subject may be very pathetic ; 
but it is always more instructive, when a person has been himself the 
cause of his misfortune, and when his misfortune is occasioned by the 
violence of passion, or by some weakness incident to human nature. 
Such subjects both dispose us to the deepest sympathy, and administer 
useful warnings to us for our own conduct. 

Upon these principles, it surprises me that the story of (Edipus should 
have been so much celebrated by all the critics, as one of the fittest 
subjects for tragedy : and so often brought upon the stage, not by So- 
phocles only, but by Corneille also, and Voltaire. An innocent person, 
one in the main, of a virtuous character, through no crime of his own, 
nay, not by the vices of others, but through mere fatality, and blind 
chance, is involved in the greatest of all human miseries. In a casual 
rencounter, he kills his father, without knowing him ; he afterward is 
married to his own mother ; and, discovering himself in the end to have 
committed both paricide and incest, he becomes frantic, and dies in the 
utmost misery. Such a subject excites horror rather than pity. As it 
is conducted by Sophocles, it is indeed extremely affecting ; but it con- 
veys no instruction ; it awakens in the mind no tender sympathy ; it 
leaves no impression favourable to virtue or humanity. 

It must be acknowledged, that the subjects of the ancient Greek trage- 
dies were too often founded on mere destiny, and inevitable misfortunes. 
They were too much mixed with their tales about oracles, and the ven- 
geance of the gods, which led to many an incident sufficiently melancholy 
and tragical ; but rather purely tragical than useful or moral. Hence 
both the (Edipus's of Sophocles, the Iphigenia in Aulis, the Hecuba of 
Euripides, and several of the like kind. In the course of the drama-, 
many moral sentiments occured. But the instruction which the fable 
of the play conveyed, seldom was; any more than that reverence was 
owing to the gods, and submission due to the decrees of destiny. Mo- 

N n n 



4 6b tkagedy: l lect. xlvl 

dern tragedy has aimed at a higher object, by becoming more the thea- 
tre of passion ; pointing out to men the consequences of their own mis- 
conduct ; showing the direful effects which ambition, jealousy, love, re- 
sentment, and other such strong emotions, when misguided, or left unre- 
strained, produce upon human life. An Othello, hurried by jealousy to 
murder his innocent wife ; a Jaffier, ensnared by resentment and want, 
to engage in a conspiracy, and then stung with remorse, and involved in 
ruin ; a Siffredi, through the deceit which he employs for public spirited 
ends, bringing destruction on all whom he loved ; a Calista, seduced 
into a criminal intrigue, which overwhelms herself, her father, and all 
her friends, in misery ; these, and such as these, are the examples which 
tragedy now displays to public view ; and by means of which it in- 
culcates on men the proper government of their passions. 

Of all the passions which furnish matter to tragedy, that which has 
most occupied the modern stage, is love. To the ancient theatre, it 
was in a manner wholly unknown. In few of their tragedies is it ever 
mentioned ; and I remember no more than one which turns upon it, the 
Hippolitus of Euripides. This was owing to the national manners of 
the Greeks, and to that greater separation of the two sexes from one 
another, than has taken place in modern times ; aided too, perhaps, by 
this circumstance, that no female actress ever appeared on the ancient 
stage. But though no reason appears for the total exclusion of love from 
the theatre, yet with what justice or propriety it has usurped so much 
place, as to be in a manner the sole hinge of modern tragedy, may be 
much questioned. Voltaire, who is no less eminent as a critic than as a 
poet, declares loudly and strongly against this predominancy of love, as 
both degrading the majesty, and confining the natural limits of tragedy. 
And assuredly, the mixing of it perpetually with all the great and 
solemn revolutions of human fortune which belong to the tragic stage, 
tends to give tragedy too much the air of gallantry, and juvenile 
entertainment. The Athalie of Racine, the JMerope of Voltaire, the 
Douglas of Mr. Home, are sufficient proofs, that without any assistance 
from love, the drama is capable of producing its highest effects upon the 
mind. 

This seems to be clear, that wherever love is introduced into tragedy, 
it ought to reign in it, and to give rise to the principal action. It ought 
to be that sort of love which possesses all the force and majesty of pas- 
sion ; and which occasions great and important consequences. For 
nothing can have a worse effect, or be more debasing to tragedy, than, 
together with the manly and heroic passions, to mingle a trifling love 
intrigue, as a sort of seasoning to the play. The bad effects of this are 
sufficiently conspicuous both in the Cato of Mr. Addison, as. I had occa- 
sion before to remark, and in the Iphigenie of Racine. 

After a tragic poet has arranged his subject, and chosen his personages, 
the next thing he must attend to, is the propriety of sentiments ; that 
they be perfectly suited to the characters of those persons to whom 
they are attributed, and to the situations in which they are placed. The 
necessity of observing this general rule is so obvious, that I need not in- 
sist upon it. It is principally in the pathetic parts, that both the difficul- 
ty &nd the importance of it are the greatest. Tragedy is the region of 
passion. We come to it expecting to be moved ; and let the poet be ever 
so judicious in his conduct, moral in his intentions, and elegant in his 
style, yet ; if he fails in the pathetic., he has no tragic merit : we return 



LECT. XLVI.<] XRAGEDI- 467 

cold and disappointed from the performance ; and never desire to meet 
with it more. 

To paint passion so truly and justly as to strike the hearts of the 
hearers with full sympathy, is a prerogative of genius given to few. It 
requires strong and ardent sensibility of mind. It requires the author to 
have the power of entering deeply into the characters which he draws ; 
of becoming for a moment the very person whom he exhibits, and of 
assuming all his feelings. For, as I have often had occasion to observe., 
there is no possibility of speaking properly the language of any passion, 
without feeling it ; and it is to the absence or deadness of real emotion, 
that we must ascribe the want of success in so many tragic writers, when 
they attempt being pathetic. 

No man, for instance, when he is under the strong agitations of anger, 
of grief, or any such violent passion, ever thinks of describing to another 
what his feelings at that time are ; or of telling them what he resembles. 
This never was, and never will be, the language of any person, when 
he is deeply moved. It is the language of one who describes coolly 
the condition of that person to another ; or it is the language of the 
passionate person himself, after his emotion has subsided, relating what 
his situation was in the moments of passion. Yet this sort of secondary 
description, is what tragic poets too often give us instead of the native 
and primary language of passion. Thus, in Mr. Addison's Cato, when 
Lucia confesses to Portius her love for him, but, at the same time, 
swears with the greatest solemnity, that in the present situation of their 
country she will never marry him ; Portius receives this unexpected 
sentence with the utmost astonishment and grief; at least the poet wants 
to make us believe that he so received it. How does he express these 
feelings ? 

Fix'd in astonishment, I gaze upon tbee, 
Like one just blasted by a stroke from heav'n, 
Who pants for breath, and stiffens yet alive 
In dreadful looks ; a monument of wrath. 

• This makes his whole reply to Lucia. Nor did any person, who was 
of a sudden astonished and overwhelmed with sorrow, ever, since the 
creation of the world, express himself in this manner ? This is indeed an 
excellent description to be given us by another, of a person who was in 
such a situation. Nothing would have been more proper for a by-standei\ 
recounting this conference, than to have said, 

Fix'd in astonishment, he gaz'd upon her, 
Like one just blasted by a stroke from heav'n, 
WJio pants for breath, &c. 

But the person, who is himself concerned, speaks on such an occasion 
in a very different manner. He gives vent to his feelings ; he pleads 
for pity ; he dwells upon the cause of his grief and astonishment ; but 
never thinks of describing his own person and looks, and showing us, by 
a simile, what he resembles. Such representations of passions are no 
better in poetry, than it would be in painting, to make a label issue from 
the mouth of a figure, bidding us remark, that this figure represents an 
astonished, or a grieved person. 

On some other occasions, when poets do not employ this sort of de- 
scriptive language in passion, they are too apt to run into forced and 
unnatural thoughts, in order to exaggerate the feelings of persons, whom 
they would paint as very strongly moved. When Osinyn, in the Mourn- 
ing Bride, after parting with Almeria, regrets, in a long soliloquy, that 



463 TRAGEDY. [LTSCT. XLVI 

his eyes only sec objects that are present, and cannot see Almeria after 
she is gone ; when Jane Shore, in Mr. Rowe's tragedy, on meeting 
with her husband in her extreme distress, and finding that he had forgiven 
her, calls on the rains to give her their drops, and the springs to give 
her their streams, that she may never want a supply of tears ; in such 
passages, we see very plainly, that it is neither Osinyn, nor Jane Shore, 
that speak ; but the poet himself in his own person, who, instead of 
assuming the feelings of those whom he means to exhibit, and speaking 
as they would have done in such situations, is straining his fancy, and 
spurring up his genius, to say something that shall be uncommonly strong 
and lively. 

If we attend to the language that is spoken by persons under the influ- 
ence of real passion, we shall find it always plain and simple ; abounding 
indeed with those figures which express a disturbed and impetuous state 
of mind, such as interrogations, exclamations, and apostrophes ; but 
never employing those which belong to the mere embellishment and 
parade of speech. We never meet with any subtilty or refinement, in 
the sentiments of real passion. The thoughts which passion suggests, are 
always plain and obvious ones, arising directly from its object. Passion 
never reasons nor speculates, till its ardour begins to cool. It never 
leads to long discourse or declamation. On the contrary, it expresses 
itself most commonly in short, broken, and interrupted speeches ; cor- 
responding to the violent and desultory emotions of the mind. 

When we examine the French tragedians by these principles which 
seem clearly founded in nature, we find them often deficient. Though 
in many parts of tragic composition, they have great merit ; though in 
exciting soft and tender emotions, some of them are very successful : 
yet, in the high and strong pathetic, they generally fail. Their pas- 
sionate speeches too often run into long declamation. There is too 
much reasoning and refinement ; too much pomp and studied beauty in 
them. They rather convey a feeble impression of passion, than awaken 
any strong sympatlry in the reader's mind. 

Sophocles and Euripides are much more successful in this part of 
composition. In their pathetic scenes, we find no unnatural refinement ; 
no exaggerated thoughts. They set before us the plain and direct feel- 
ings of nature, in simple expressive language ; and therefore, on great 
occasions, they seldom fail of touching the heart.* This too is Shak- 
speare's great excellency ; and to this it is principally owing, that his 
dramatic productions, notwithstanding their many imperfections, have 
been so long the favourites of the public. He is more faithful to the 
true language of nature, in the midst of passion, than any writer. He 
gives us this language, unadulterated by art ; and more instances of it 
can be quoted from him, than from all other tragic poets taken together. 
I shall refer only to that admirable scene in Macbeth, where Macduff re- 

* Nothing, for instance, can be more touching and pathetic than the address which 
Medea, in Euripides, makes to her children, when she had formed the resolution 
of putting them to death ; and nothing more natural, than the conflict which she i? 
described as suffering within herself on that occasion. 

<biu, $fy, <ri ir£(xrJigx.ijBs [a o/m/ucteiy -rsxva : * 
It TteooyzXcL'rz toy TiZvvg'arov yi\av ; 
'A/, at' ti S^zcrao ; ysgSta yag oi%srur 
Twoukss, hfA/uct <j>AftTgov a? ufov rwcev 
'■O'j'A. av JVva/ww, -/tttg^TOi) 2tsytv v. «t a, &c. 

Eitr. Miri). 1. 10.40. 



LECT. XLVI.j TRAGEDY, 469 

ceives the account of his wife, and all his children being slaughtered in 
his absence. The emotions, first of grief, and then of the most fierce 
resentment rising against Macbeth, are painted in such a manner, that 
there is no heart but must feel them, and no fancy can conceive anything 
more expressive of nature. 

With regard to moral sentiments and reflections in tragedies, it is 
clear that they must not recur too often. They lose their effect, when 
unseasonably crowded. They render the play pedantic and declama- 
tory. This is remarkably the case with those Latin tragedies which go 
under the name of Seneca, which are little more than a collection of 
declamations and moral sentences, wrought up with a quaint brilliancy^ 
which suited the prevailing taste of that age. 

I am not however, of opinion, that moral reflections ought to be 
altogether omitted in tragedies. When properly introduced, they give 
dignity to the composition, and, on many occasions, they are extremely 
natural. When persons are under any uncommon distress ; when they 
are beholding in others, or experiencing in themselves, the vicissitudes 
of human fortune ; indeed, when they are placed in any of the great 
and trying situations of life, serious and moral reflections naturally oc- 
cur to them, whether they be persons of much virtue or not. Hardly is 
there any person, but who, on such occasions, is disposed to be serious. 
It is then the natural tone of the mind ; and therefore no tragic poet 
should omit such proper opportunities, when they occur, for favouring 
the interests of virtue. Cardinal Wolsey's soliloquy upon his fall, for 
instance, in Shakspeare, when he bids a long farewell to all his great- 
ness, and the advices which he afterward gives to Cromwell, are, in his 
situation, extremely natural ; touch and please all readers ; and are at 
once instructive and affecting. Much of the merit of Mr. Addison's 
Cato depends upon that moral turn of thought which distinguishes it. I 
have had occasion, both in this lecture, and in the preceding one to 
to take notice of some of its defects ; and certainly neither for warmth of 
passion, nor proper conduct of the plot, is it at all eminent. It does 
not, however, follow, that it is destitute of merit. For, by the purity 
and beauty of the language, by the dignity of Cato's character, by 
that ardour of public spirit, and those virtuous sentiments of which it 
is full, it has always commanded high regard ; and has, both in our own 
country and among foreigners, acquired no small reputation. 

The style and versification of tragedy ought to be free, easy, and va- 
ried. Our blank verse is happily suited to this purpose. It has suffi- 
cient majesty for raising the style ; it can descend to the simple and 
familiar ; it is susceptible of great variety of cadence ; and is quite 
free from the constraint and monotony of rhyme. For monotony is, 
above all things, to be avoided by a tragic poet. If he maintains every 
where the same stateliness of style, if he uniformly keeps up the same 
run of measure and harmony in his verse, he cannot fail of becoming 
insipid. He should not indeed sink into flat and careless lines ; his 
style should always have force and dignity ; but not the uniform dignity 
of epic poetry. It should assume that briskness and ease, which is suit- 
ed to the freedom of dialogue, and the fluctuations of passion. 

One of the greatest misfortunes of the French tragedy is, its being 
always written in rhyme. The nature of the French language, indeed, 
requires this in order to distinguish the style from mere prose. But 
it fetters the freedom of the tragic dialogue, fills it with a languid mo- 



470 GREEK TRAGEDY. £LECT. XLVI. 

notony, and is, in a manner, fatal to the high strength and power of pas- 
sion. Voltaire maintains that the difficulty of composing in French 
rhyme, is one great cause of the pleasure which the audience receives 
from the composition. Tragedy would be ruined, says he, if we were 
to write it in blank verse ; take away the difficulty, and you take away 
the whole merit. A strange idea ! as if the entertainment of the audi- 
ence arose, not from the emotions which the poet is successful in awak- 
ening, but from a reflection on the toil which he endured in his closet, 
from assorting male and female rhymes. With regard to those splendid 
comparisons in rhyme and strings of couplets, with which it was, some 
time ago, fashionable for our English poets to conclude, not only everj' 
act of a tragedy, but sometimes also, the most interesting scenes, nothing 
need be said, but that they were the most perfect barbarisms ; childish 
ornaments, introduced to please a false taste in the audience ; and now 
universally laid aside. 

Having thus treated of all the different parts of tragedy, I shall con- 
clude the subject with a short view of the Greek, the French, and the 
English stage, and with observations on the principal writers. 

Most of the distinguished characters of the Greek tragedy have been 
already occasionally mentioned. It was embellished with the lyric poetry 
of the chorus, of the origin of which, and of the advantages and disad- 
vantages attending it, I treated fully in the preceding lecture. The 
plot was always exceedingly simple. It admitted of few incidents It 
was conducted, for most part, with a very exact regard to the unities 
of action, time and place. Machinery, or the intervention of the gods, 
was employed ; and, which is very faulty, the final unravelling some- 
times made to turn upon it. Love, except, in one or two instances, was 
never admitted into the Greek tragedy. Their subjects were often 
founded on destiny, or inevitable misfortunes. A vein of religious and 
moral sentiment always runs through them ; but they made less use than 
the moderns of the combat of the passions, and of the distresses which 
our passions bring upon us. Their plots were all taken from the ancient 
traditionary stories of their own nation. Hercules furnishes matter for 
two tragedies. The history of (Epidus, king of Thebes, and his unfor- 
tunate family, for six. The war of Troy, with its consequences, for no 
fewer than seventeen. There is only one of later date than this ; which 
is the Persas, or expedition of Xerxes, by jEschylus. 

iEschylus is the father of Greek tragedy, and exhibits both the beau- 
ties and the defects, of an early original writer. He is bold, nervous, 
and animated, but very obscure, and difficult to be understood ; partly 
by reason of the incorrect state in which we have his works (they 
having suffered more by time, than any of the ancient tragedians,) and 
partly, on account of the nature of his style, which is crowded with 
metaphors, often harsh and tumid. He abounds with martial ideas and 
descriptions. He has much fire and elevation ; less of tenderness than 
of 'force. He delights in the marvellous. The ghost of Darius in the 
Persae, the inspiration of Cassandra in Agamemnon, and the songs of the 
furies in the Eumenides, are beautiful in their kind, and strongly ex- 
pressive of his genius. 

Sophocles is the most masterly of the three Greek tragedians ; the 
most correct in the conduct of his subjects ; the most just and sublime 
in his sentiments. He is eminent for his descriptive talent. The rela- 
tion of <"he death of GSmdus. in his CEpidus Coloneus, and of the death 



LECT. XLVI.j GREEK TRAGEDY, 47I 

of Haemon and Antigone, in his Antigone, are perfect patterns of 
description to tragic poets. Euripides is esteemed more tender than 
Sophocles, and he is fuller of moral sentiments. But, in the conduct of 
his plaj's, he is more incorrect and negligent ; his expositions, or openings 
of the subject, are made in a less artful manner ; and the songs of his 
chorus, though remarkably poetical, have, commonly, less connexion 
with the main action, than those of Sophocles. Both Euripides and 
Sophocles, however, have very high merit as tragic poets. They are 
elegant and beautiful in their style : just, for the most part, in their 
thoughts ; they speak with the voice of nature ; and, making allowance 
for the difference of ancient and modern ideas, in the midst of all their 
simplicity, they are touching and interesting. 

The circumstances of theatrical representation on the stages of Greece 
and Rome, were, in several respects, very singular, and widely different 
from what obtains among us. Not only were the songs of the chorus 
accompanied with instrumental music, but as the Abbe du Bos, in his 
reflections on Poetry and Painting, has proved, with much curious 
erudition; the dialogue part had also a modulation of its own, which 
was capable of its being set to notes ; it was carried on in a sort of 
recitative between the actors, and was supported by instruments. He 
has farther attempted to prove, but the proof seems more incomplete, 
that, on some occasions, on the Roman stage, the pronouncing and 
gesticulating parts were divided ; that one actor spoke, and another 
performed the gestures and motions corresponding to what the first said. 
The actors in tragedy wore a long robe, called Syrma, which flowed 
upon the stage. They were raised upon Cothurni, which rendered their 
stature uncommonly high ; and they always played in masques. These 
masques were like helmets, which covered the whole head ; the mouths 
of them were so contrived as to give an artificial sound to the voice, in 
order to make it be heard over their vast theatres ; and the visage was 
so formed and painted, as to suit the age, characters, or dispositions of 
the persons represented. When, during the course of one scene, dif • 
ferent emotions were to appear in the same person, the masque is said 
to have been so painted, that the actor, by turning one or other profile 
of his face to the spectators, expressed the change of the situation. 
This, however, was a contrivance attended with many disadvantages. 
The masque must have deprived the spectators of all the pleasure 
which arises from the natural animated expression of the eye and the 
countenance ; and joined with the other circumstances which I have 
mentioned, is apt to give us but an unfavourable idea of the dramatic 
representations of the ancients. In defence of them, it must, at the 
same time, be remembered, that their theatres were vastly more ex- 
tensive in the area than ours, and filled with immense crowds. They 
were always uncovered, and exposed to the open air. The actors 
were beheld at a much greater distance, and of course much more im- 
perfectly by the bulk of the spectators, which both rendered their 
looks of less consequence, and might make it in some degree necessary 
that their features should be exaggerated, the sound of their voices 
enlarged, and their whole appearance magnified beyond the life, in order 
to make the stronger impression. It is certain, that as dramatic spec- 
tacles were the favourite entertainments of the Greeks and Romans, 
the attention given to their proper exhibition, and the magnificence of 



472 FRENCH TRAGEDY. [LECT. XLVH 

the apparatus bestowed on their theatres, far exceeded any thing that 
has been attempted in modern ages. 

In the compositions of some of the French dramatic writers, particu- 
larly Corneille, Racine, and Voltaire, tragedy has appeared with much 
lustre and dignity. They must be allowed to have improved upon the 
ancients in introducing more incidents, a greater variety of passions, a 
fuller display of characters, and in rendering the subject thereby more 
interesting. They have studied to imitate the ancient models in regu- 
larity of conduct. They are attentive to all the unities, and to all the 
decorums of sentiment and morality ; and their style is, generally, very 
poetical and elegant. What an English taste is most apt to censure in 
them, is the want of fervour, strength, and the natural language of pas- 
sion. There is often too much conversation in their pieces, instead of 
action. They are too declamatory, as was before observed, when they 
should be passionate ; too refined, when they should be simple. Vol- 
taire freely acknowledges those defects of the French theatre. He 
admits, that their best tragedies do not make a sufficient impression on 
the heart ; that the gallantry which reigns in them, and the long fine 
spun dialogue with which they over-abound, frequently spread alangour 
ever them ; that the authors seemed to be afraid of being too tragic ; 
and very candidly gives it as his judgment, that an union of the vehe- 
mence and the action, which characterize the English theatre, with the 
correctness and decorum of the French theatre, would be necessary to 
form a perfect tragedy. 

Corneille, who is properly the father of French tragedy, is distin- 
guished by the majesty and grandeur of his sentiments, and the fruitful- 
ness of his imagination. His genius was unquestionably very rich, but 
seemed more turned towards the epic than the tragic vein; for, in 
general, he is magnificent and splendid, rather than tender and touching. 
He is the most declamatory of all the French tragedians. He united 
the copiousness of Drj'den with the fire of Lucan, and he resembles 
them also in their faults, in their extravagance and impetuosity. He has 
composed a great number of tragedies, very unequal in ther merit. 
His best and most esteemed pieces, are the Cid, Horace, Polyeucte, 
and Cinna. 

Racine, as a tragic poet, is much superior to Corneille. He wanted 
the copiousness and grandeur of Corneille's imagination ; but is free 
from his bombast, and excels him greatly in tenderness. Few poets, 
indeed, are more tender and moving than Racine. His Phaedra, his 
Andromaque, his Athalie, and his Mithridate, are excellent dramatic 
performances, and do no small honour to the French stage. His lan- 
guage and versification are uncommonly beautiful. Of all the French 
authors, he appears to me to have most excelled in poetical style ; to 
have managed their rhyme with the greatest advantage and facility, and 
to have given it the most complete harmony. Voltaire has, again and 
again, pronounced Racine's Athalie to be the " Chef d'Oeuvre" of the 
French stage. It is altogether a sacred drama, and owes much of its 
elevation to the majesty of religion ; but it is less tender and interesting 
than Andromaque. 

R-acine has formed two of his plays upon plans of Euripides. In the 
Phsedra he is extremely successful, but not so, in my opinion, in the 
Iphigenie ; where he has degraded the ancient characters by unseason- 



LECT.XLVI.J FRENCH TRAGEDY , 433 

able gallantry. Achilles is a French lover; and Eriphile, a modern 
lady.* 

Voltaire, in several of his tragedies, is inferior to none of his prede- 
cessors. In one great article, he has outdone them all, in the delicate 
and interesting situations which he has contrived to introduce. In these 
lies his chief strength. ( He is not, indeed, exempt from the defects of 
the other French tragedians, of wanting force, and of being sometimes 
too long and declamatory in his speeches ; but his characters are drawn 
with spirit, his events are striking, and in his sentiments there is much 
elevation. His Zayre, Alzire, Merope, and Orphan of China, are four 
capital tragedies, and deserve the highest praise. What one might per- 
haps not expect, Voltaire is, in the strain of his sentiments, the most 
religious, and the most moral of all tragic poets. 

Though the musical dramas of Metastasio fulfil not the character of 
just and regular tragedies, they approach however £0 near to it, and 
possess so much merit, that it would be unjust to pass them over with- 
out notice. For the elegance of style, the charms of lyric poetry, and 
the beauties of sentiment, they are eminent They abound in well-con- 
trived and interesting situations. The dialogue, by its closeness and 

* The characters of Corneille and Racine are happily contrasted with each other, 
?n the following beautiful lines of a French poet, which will gratify several readers J 

Corneille. 

Ilium nobilibus raajestas evehit alis 
Vertice tangentem nubes ; slant ordine longo 
Magnanimi circum heroes, fulgentibas omnes 
Induti trabeis ; Polyeuctus, China, Seleucus, 
Et Cidus, et rugis signatus Horatius ora. 

Racine. 

Hunc circumvolitat penna alludente Cupido; 
Vincla triumphatis insternens floreascenis ; 
Colligit haec mollis genius, levibusque catenis 
HerOas stringit dociles, Pyrrhosque, Titosque, 
Pedilasque, ac Hyppolytos, qui sponte sequuntiu* 
Servitiuin, facilesque ferunt in vincula palmas. 
Ingentes nimirum animos Cornelius ingens, 
Et quales habet ipse, suis hcroibus attlat 
Sublimes sensus ; vox olli mascula, magnum os, 
Nee mortale sonans. Rapido fluit impetu vena, 
Vena Sophocleis non inficianda fluentis. 
Racinius Gallis baud visos ante theatris 
Mollior ingenio teneros indusit amores. 
Magnanimosquamvis sensus sub pectore verset 
Agrippina, licet Romano robore Burrhus 
Polleat, et magni generosa superbia Pori 
Non semel eniteat, tamen esse ad mollia natum 
Credideris vatem ; vox olli mellea, lenis 
Spiritusest ; non ille animis vim concitus infert, 
At caecos animorum aditus rimatur, et imis 
Mentibus occultos, syren penetrabilis, ictus 
Insinuans, palpando ferit, laiditque placendo. 
Vena fluit facili non intermissa nitore, 
Nee rapidos semper volvit cum murmure fluctus, 
Agmine sed leni fluitat. Seu gramina lambit 
Rivulus, et cseco per prata virentia lapsu 
Aufugiens, tacita fluit indeprensus arena ; 
Flore micant ripae illimes 5 hue vulgus amantum 
Convolat, et lacrymis auget rivalibus undas ; 
Singultus undas referunt, gemitusque sonoros 
Ingeminant, molli gemitus imitante susurro. 

Templuna Tragoediae, per Fr. Marsy, e Societate Jesu 
O o 



474 ENGLISH TRAGEDY. [LECT. XLVL 

rapidity, carries a considerable resemblance to that of the ancient Greek 
tragedies ; and is both more animated and more natural, than the long 
declamation of the French theatre. But the shortness of the several 
dramas, and the intermixture of so much lyric poetry asbelongs to this sort 
of composition, often occasions the course of the incidents to be hurried 
on too quickly, and prevents that consistent display of characters, and that 
fall preparation of events, which are necessary to give a proper verisimili- 
tude to tragedy. 

It only now remains to speak of the state of tragedy in Great Britain ; 
the general character of which is, that it is more animated and passionate 
than French tragedy, but more irregular and incorrect, and less attentive 
to decorum and to elegance. The pathetic, it must always be remembered , 
is the soul of tragedy. The English, therefore, must be allowed to 
Lave aimed at the highest species of excellence ; though, in the execu- 
tion, they have not alwaj's joined the other beauties that ought to accom- 
pany the pathetic. 

The first object which presents itself to us on the English theatre, is 
the great Shakspeare. Great he may be justly called, as the extent and 
force of his natural genius, both for tragedy and comedy, are altogether 
unrivalled.* But, at the same time, it is genius shooting wild ; deficient 
in just taste, and altogether unassisted by knowledge or art. — Long has 
he been idolized by the British nation ; much has been said, and much 
has been written concerning him ; criticism has been drawn to the 
very dregs, in commentaries upon his words and witticisms ; and yet 
it remains, to this day, in doubt, whether his beauties, or his faults, be 
greatest. Admirable scenes, and passages without number, there 
are in his plays ; passages beyond what are -to be found in any other 
dramatic writer ; but there is hardly any one of his plays which can be 
called altogether a good one, or which can be read with uninterrupted 
pleasure from beginning to end. Besides extreme irregularities in 
conduct, and grotesque mixtures of serious and comic in one piece, we 
are every now and then interrupted by unnatural thoughts and harsh 
expressions, a certain obscure bombast, and a play upon words, which 
he is fond of pursuing ; and these interruptions to our pleasure too fre- 
quently occur, on occasions, when we would least wish to meet with 
them. All these faults, however, Shakspeare redeems, by two of the 
greatest excellencies which any tragic poet can possess ; his lively and 
diversified paintings of character ; his strong and natural expressions of 
passion. These are his two chief virtues ; on these his merit rests. Not- 
withstanding his many absurdities, all the while we are reading his plays, 
we find ourselves in the midst of our fellows ; we meet with men, vulgar 
perhaps in their manners, coarse or harsh in their sentiments, but 
still they are men ; they speak with human voices, and are actuated by 

* The character which Dryden has drawn of Shakspeare is not only just, but 
uncommonly elegant and happy. " He was the man, who of all modern, and per- 
haps ancient poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul. All the images of 
nature were still present to him, and he drew them not laboriously but luckily. 
When be descrihes any thing, you more than see it; you feel it too. They who 
accuse him of wanting learning, give him the greatest commendation. He was 
naturally learned. He needed not the spectacles of books to read nature. He 
looked inward, and found her there. I cannot say he is every where alike. Were 
he so, I should do him injury to compare him to the greatest of mankind. He is 
many times flat and insipid ; bis comic wit degenerating into clenches ; his serious 
swelling into bombast But he is always great when some great occasion is pre- 
sented to hinV JDkvden's Essav of Dramatic Poetry. 



LECT. XIAL3 i ENGLISH TRAGEDY, 475 

human passions ; we are interested in what they say or do, because we 
feel that they are of the same nature with ourselves. It is therefore 
no matter of wonder, that from the more polished and regular, but more 
eold and artificial performances of other poets, the public should return 
with pleasure to such warm and genuine representations of human na- 
ture. Shakspeare possesses likewise the merit of having created, for 
himself, a sort of world of praeternatural beings. His witches, ghosts, 
fairies, and spirits of all kinds, are described with such circumstances of 
awful and mysterious solemnity, and speak a language so peculiar to 
themselves, as strongly to affect the imagination. His two master- pieces, 
and in which, in my opinion, the strength of his genius chiefly appears, 
are, Othello and Macbeth. With regard to his historical plays, they 
are, properly speaking, neither tragedies nor comedies : but a peculiar 
species of dramatic entertainment, calculated to describe the manners of 
the times of which he treats, to exhibit the principal characters, and to 
fix our imagination on the most interesting events and revolutions of our 
own country.* 

After the age of Shakspeare, we can produce in the English lan- 
guage several detached tragedies of considerable merit. But we have 
not many dramatic writers whose whole works are entitled either to par- 
ticular criticism, or very high praise. In the tragedies of Dryden and 
Lee, there is much fire, but mixed with much fustian and rant. Lee's 
Theodosius, or the " Force of Love," is the best of his pieces, and, i» 
some of the scenes, does not want tenderness and warmth, though roman- 
tic in the plan, and extravagant in the sentiments. Otway was endowed 
with a high portion of the tragic spirit : which appears to great advan- 
tage in his two principal tragedies, " The Orphan," and " Venice Pre- 
served." In these, he is perhaps too tragic ; the distresses being so deep 
as to tear and overwhelm the mind. He is a writer, doubtless, of genius 
and strong passion ; but, at the same time, exceedingly gross and indeli- 
cate. No tragedies are less moral than those of Otway. There are 
no generous or noble sentiments in them ; but a licentious spirit often 
discovers itself. He is the very opposite of the French decorum ; and 
has contrived to introduce obscenity and indecent allusions, into the midst 
of deep tragedy. 

Rowe's tragedies make a contrast to those of Otway. He is full of 
elevated and moral sentiments. The poetry is often good, and the lan- 
guage always pure and elegant ; but in most of his plays, he is too cold 
and uninteresting ; and flowery rather than tragic. Two, however, he 
has produced, which deserve to be exempted from this censure, Jane 
Shore and the Fair Penitent ; in both of which there are so many ten- 
der and truly pathetic scenes, as to render them justly favourites of the 
public. 

Dr. Young's Revenge, is a play which discovers genius and fire ; but 
wants tenderness, and turns too much upon the shocking and direful pas- 
sions. In Congreve's Mourning Bride, there are some fine situations, 
and much good poetry. The two first acts are admirable. The meet- 
ing of Almeria with her husband Osmyn, in the tomb of Anselmo, is one 
of the most solemn and striking situations to be found in any tragedy, 

_> See an excellent defence of Shakspeare's Historical Plays, and several just 
observations on his peculiar excellencies as a tragic poet, in Mrs, Montague's Essay 
on the Writings and Genius of Shakspeare, 



47o COMEDJu L LECT. XLVIX. 

The defects in the catastrophe, I pointed out in the last lecture. Mr. 
Thompson's tragedies are too full of a stiff morality, which renders them 
dull and formal. Tancred and Sigismunda, far excels the rest ; and for 
the plot, the characters, and sentiments, justly deserves a place among 
the best English tragedies. Of later pieces, and of living authors, it is 
not my purpose to treat. 

Upon the whole, reviewing the tragic compositions of different 
nations, the following conclusions arise. A Greek tragedy is the relation 
of any distressful or melancholy incident; sometimes the effect of 
passion or crime, oftener of the decree of the gods, simply exposed ; 
without much variety of parts or events, but naturally and beautifully 
set before us ; heightened by the poetry of the chorus. A French tragedy 
is a series of artful and refined conversations, founded upon a variety 
of tragical and interesting situations ; carried on with little action and 
vehemence ; but with much poetical beauty, and high propriety and de- 
corum. An English tragedy is the combat of strong passions, set before 
us in all their violence ; producing deep disasters ; often irregularly 
conducted ; abounding in action ; and filling the spectators with grief. 
The ancient tragedies were more natural and simple ; the modern are 
more artful and complex. Among the French, there is more correct- 
ness ; among the English, more fire. Andromaque and Zayre soften 3 
Othello and Venice. Preserved rend, the heart. It deserves remark, 
that three of the greatest masterpieces of the French tragic theatre., 
turn wholly upon religious subjects : the Athalie of Racine, the Po- 
lyeucte of Corneille, and the Zayre of Voltaire. The first is founded 
upon a historical passage of the Old Testament ; in the other two, the 
distress arises from the zeal and attachment of the principal personages 
to the Christian faith ; and in all the three, the authors have, with much 
propriety, availed themselves of the majesty which may be derived from 
religious ideas. 



LECTURE XLVII. 



COMEDY— GREEK AND ROMAN. FRENCH, ENGLISH CCAIEDT, 

Comedy is sufficiently discriminated from tragedy, by its general 
spirit and strain. While pity and terror, and the other strong passions, 
form the province of the latter, the chief, or rather sole instrument of 
the former, is ridicule. Comedy proposes for its object, neither the 
great sufferings, nor the great crimes of men ; but their follies and 
slighter vices, those parts of their character, which raise in beholders 
a sense of impropriety, which expose them to be censured, and laughed 
at by others, or which render them troublesome in civil society. 

This general idea of comedy, as a satirical exhibition of the impro- 
prieties and follies of mankind, is an idea very moral and useful. There 
is nothing in the nature, or general plan of this kind of composition, 
that renders it liable to censure. To polish the manners of men, to 
■nromote attention to the proper decorums of social behaviour, and above 



LECT. XLVIL] COMEDT, 4 7 j 

all, to render vice ridiculous, is doing a real service to the world. Many 
vices might be more successfully exploded, by employing ridicule against 
them, than by serious attacks and arguments. At the same time, it 
must be confessed, that ridicule is an instrument of such a nature, that 
when managed by unskilful, or improper hands, there is hazard of its 
doing mischief, instead of good, to society. For ridicule is far from 
being, as some have maintained it to be, a proper test of truth. On the 
contrary, it is apt to mislead and seduce, by the colours ivhich it throws 
upon its objects, and it is often more difficult to judge, whether these 
colours be natural and proper, than it is to distinguish between simple 
truth and error. Licentious writers, therefore, of the comic class, have 
too often had it in their power to cast a ridicule upon characters and 
objects which did not deserve it. But this is a fault, not owing to the 
nature of comedy, but to the genius and turn of the writers of it. In the 
hands of a loose, immoral author, comedy will mislead and corrupt 5 - 
while, in those of a virtuous and well-intentioned one, it will be not only 
a gay and innocent, but a laudable and useful entertainment. French 
comedy is an excellent school of manners ; while English comedy has 
been too often the school of vice. 

The rules respecting the dramatic action, which I delivered in the 
first Lecture upon tragedy, belong equally to comedy ; and hence, of 
course, our disquisitions concerning it are shortened. It is equally 
necessary to both these forms of dramatic composition, that there be a 
proper unity of action and subject ; that the unities of time and place 
be, as much as possible, preserved ; that is, that the time of the action 
be brought within reasonable bounds ; and the place of the action never 
changed, at least, not during the course of each act ; that the several 
Scenes or successive conversations be properly linked together ; that 
the stage be never totally evacuated till the act closes ; and that the 
reason should appear to us, why the personages who fill up the different 
scenes, enter and go off the stage, at the time when they are made to 
do so. The scope of all these rules, I showed, was to bring the imita- 
tion as near as possible to probability ; which is always necessary, in 
order to any imitation giving us pleasure. This reason require?, 
perhaps, a stricter observance oY the dramatic rules in comedy, than in 
tragedy. For the action of comedy being more familiar to us than that 
of tragedy, more like what we are accustomed to see in common life,, 
we judge more easily of what is probable, and are more hurt by the 
want of it. The probable and the natural, both in the conduct of the 
story, and in the characters and sentiments of the persons who are in- 
troduced, are the great foundation, it must always be remembered, of 
the whole beauty of comedy. 

The subjects of tragedy are not limited to any country, or to any 
age. The tragic poet may lay his scene in whatever region he pleases. 
He may form his subject upon the history, either of his own, or of a 
foreign country ; and he may take it from any period that is agreeable 
to him, however remote in time. The reverse of this holds in comedy, 
for a clear and obvious reason. In the great vices, great virtues, and 
high passions, men of all countries and ages resemble one another ; and 
are, therefore, equally subjects for the tragic muse. But those deco- 
rums of behaviour, those lesser discriminations of character, which 
afford subject for comedy, change with the differences of countries, and 
times ; and can never be so well understood by foreigners, as by natives. 



4Y0 COMEDY. [LECT. XLV1I, 

We weep for the heroes of Greece and Rome, as freely as we do for 
those of our own country : but we are touched with the ridicule of 
such manners and such characters only, as we see and know ; and there- 
fore the scene and subject of comedy should always be laid in our own 
country, and in our own times. The comic poet, who aims at correcting 
improprieties and follies of behaviour, should study " to catch the 
manners living as they rise." It is not his business to amuse us with a 
tale of the last age, or with a Spanish or a French intrigue ; but to give 
us pictures taken from among ourselves ; to satirize reigning and pre- 
sent vices ; to exhibit to the age a faithful copy of itself, with its hu- 
mours, its follies, and its extravagancies. It is only by laying his plan 
in this manner, that he can add weight and dignity to the entertainment 
which he gives us. Plautus, it is true, and Terence, did not follow this 
rule. They laid the scene of their comedies in Greece, and adopted 
the Greek laws and customs. Eut it must be remembered, that comedy 
was, in their age, but a new entertainment in Rome ; and that then they 
contented themselves with imitating, often with translating merely, the 
comedies of Menander, and other Greek writers. In after-times, it is 
known that the Romans had the " Comoedia Togata," or what was 
founded on their own manners, as well as the " Comoedia Palliata," or 
what was taken from the Greeks. 

Comedy may be divided into two kinds ; comedy of character, and 
comedy of intrigue. In the latter, the plot, or the action of the play, is 
made the principal object. In the former, the display of some peculiar 
character is chiefly aimed at ; the action is contrived altogether with a 
view to this end, and is treated as subordinate to it. The French abound 
most in comedies of character. All Moliere's capital pieces are of this 
sort ; his Avare, for instance, Misanthrope, Tartuffe ; and such are 
Destouche's also, and those ©f the other chief French comedians. The 
English abound more in comedies of intrigue. In the plays of Congreve, 
and, in general, in all our comedies, there is much more story, more 
bustle, and action, than on the French theatre. 

In order to give this sort of composition its proper advantage, these 
two kinds should be properly mixed together. Without some interesting 
and well-conducted story, mere conversation is apt to become insipid. 
There should be always as much intrigue, as to give us something to 
wish, and something to fear. The incidents should so succeed one 
another, as to produce striking situations, and to fix our attention ; 
while they afford at the same time a proper field for the exhibition of 
character. For the poet must never forget, that to exhibit characters 
and manners, is his principal object. The action in comedy, though it 
demands his care, in order to render it animated and natural, is a less 
significant and important part of the performance, than the action in 
tragedy : as in comedy, it is what men say, and how they behave, that 
draws our attention, rather than what they perform, or what they suffer. 
Hence it is a great fault to overcharge it with too much intrigue ; and 
those intricate Spanish plots that were fashionable for a while, carried 
on by perplexed apartments, dark entries, and disguised habits, are now 
justly condemned and laid aside : for by such conduct, the main use 
of comedy was lost. The attention of the spectators, instead of being 
directed towards any display of characters, was fixed upon the surpris- 
ing turns and revolutions of the intrigue, and comedy was changed into 
a mere novel. 



LECT. XLV1I-3 COMEDY. 47$ 

In the management of characters, one of the most common faults of 
comic writers, is the carrying of them too far beyond life. Wherever 
ridicule is concerned, it is indeed extremely difficult to hit the precise 
point where true wit ends, and buffoonery begins. When the miser for 
instance, in Plautus, searching the person whom he suspects for having 
stolen his casket, after examining; first his right hand, and then his left, 
cries out " ostendeetiamtertiam," " show me your third hand," (a stroke 
too which Moliere has copied from him,) there is no one but must be 
sensible of the extravagance. Certain degrees of exaggeration are al- 
lowed to the comedian ; but there are limits set to it by nature and good 
taste ; and supposing the miser to be ever so much engrossed by his 
jealousy and his suspicions, it is impossible to conceive any man in his 
wits suspecting another of having more than two hands. 

Characters in comedy ought to be clearly distinguished from one 
another ; but the artificial contrasting of characters, and the introducing 
them always in pairs, and by opposites, gives too theatrical and affected 
an air to the piece. This is become too common a resource of comic 
writers, in order to heighten their characters, and display them to more 
advantage. As soon as the violent and impatient person arrives upon the 
stage, the spectator knows that, in the next scene, he is to be contrasted 
with the mild and good-natured man ; or if one of the lovers introduced 
be remarkably gay and airy, we are sure that his companion is to be a 
grave and serious lover; like Frankly and Bellamy, Clarinda and Ja- 
cintha, in Dr. Hoadley's Suspicious Husband. Such production of 
characters, by pairs, is like the employment of the figure antithesis in 
discourse, which, as I formerly observed, gives brilliancy indeed upon 
occasions, but is too apparently a rhetorical artifice. In every sort of 
composition, the perfection of art is to conceal art. A masterly writer 
will, therefore, give us his characters, distinguished rather by such shades 
of diversity as are commonly found in society, than marked with such 
strong oppositions, as are rarely brought into actual contrast, in any of 
the circumstances of life. 

The style of comedy ought to be pure, elegant, and lively, very 
seldom rising higher than the ordinary tone of polite conversation ; and, 
upon no occasion, descending into vulgar, mean, and gross expressions. 
Here the French rhyme, which in many of their comedies they have 
preserved, occurs as an unnatural bondage. Certainly, if prose belongs 
to any composition whatever, it is to that which imitates the conversation 
of men in ordinary life. One of the most difficult circumstances in 
writing comedy, and one too, upon which the success of it very much 
depends, is to maintain, throughout, a current of easy, genteel, unaffected 
dialogue, without pertness and flippancy ; without too much studied and 
unseasonable wit ; without dulness and formality. Too few of bur 
English comedies are distinguished for this happy turn of conversation ; 
most of them are liable to one or other of the exceptions I have men- 
tioned. The Careless Husband, and perhaps, we may add the Provoked 
Husband, and the Suspicious Husband, seem to have more merit than 
most of them, for easy and natural dialogue. 

These are the chief observations that occur to me, concerning the 
general principles of this species of dramatic writing, as distinguished 
from tragedy. But its nature and spirit will be still better understood, 
by a short history of its progress ; and a view of the manner in which 
it has been carried on by authors of different nations. 



4$G CIENT COMEDY. [LECT. XLVIL 

Tragedy is generally supposed to have been more ancient among the 
Greeks than comedy. We have fewer lights concerning the origin and 
progress of the latter. What is most propable, is, that like the other, 
it took its rise accidentally from the diversions peculiar to the feast of 
Bacchus, and from Thespis and his cart ; till hy degrees, it diverged into 
an entertainment of a quite different nature from solemn and heroic 
tragedy. Critics distinguish three stages of comedy among the Greeks ; 
which they call the ancient, the middle and the new. 

The ancient comedy consisted in direct and avowed satire against 
particular known, persons, who were brought upon the stage by name. 
Of this nature are the plays of Aristophanes, eleven of which are still 
extant ; plays of a very singular nature, and wholly different from all 
compositions which have, since that age, borne the name of comedy. 
They show what a turbulent and licentious republic that of Athens was, 
and what unrestrained scope the Athenians gave to ridicule, when they 
could suffer the most illustrious personages of their state, their generals, 
and their magistrates, Cleon, Lamachus, Nicias, Alcibiades, not to men- 
tion Socrates the philosopher, and Euripides the poet, to be publicly 
made the subject of comedy. Several of Aristophanes's plays are wholly 
political satires upon public management, and the conduct of generals 
and statesmen, during the Pelopounesian war. They are so full of 
political allegories and allusions, that it is impossible to understand them 
without a considerable knowledge of the history of those. times. They 
abound, too, with parodies of the great tragic poets, particularly of 
Euripides ; to whom the author was a great enemy, and has written two 
comedies, almost wholly in order to ridicule him. 

Vivacity, satire, and buffoonery, are the characteristics of Aristophanes. 
Genius and force he displays upon many occasions ; but his perform- 
ances, upon the whole, are not calculated to give us any high opinion 
of the Attic taste of wit, in his age. They seem, indeed, to have been 
composed for the mob. The ridicule employed in them is extravagant ; 
the wit, for the most part, buffoonish and farcical ; the personal raillery, 
biting and cruel; and the obscenity that reigns in them, is gross and 
intolerable. The treatment given by this comedian, to Socrates the 
philosopher, in his play of "The Clouds," is well known ; but 
however it might tend to disparage Socrates in the public esteem, P. 
Brumoy, in his Theatre Grec, makes it appear, that it could not have 
been, as is commonly supposed, the cause of decreeing the death of 
that philosopher, which did not happen till twenty-three years after 
the representation of Aristophanes's Clouds. There is a chorus in 
Aristophanes's plays ; but altogether of an irregular kind. It is partly 
serious, partly comic : sometimes mingles in the action, sometimes 
addresses the spectators, defends the author, and attacks his enemies. 

Scon after the days of Aristophanes, the liberty of attacking persons 
on the stage by name, being found of dangerous consequence to the 
public peace, was prohibited by law. The chorus also was, at this 
period, banished from the comic theatre, as having been an instrument 
of too much license and abuse. Then, what is called the middle come- 
dy took rise ; which was no other than an elusion of the law. Fictitious 
names, indeed, were employed ; but living persons were still attack- 
ed ; and described in such a manner as to be sufficiently known. Of 
these comic pieces, we have no remains. To them succeeded the new 
comedy; when the stage being obliged to desist wholly from personal 



LECT. XLVIZ.J SPANISH COMEDY. 481' 

ridicule, became, what it is now, the picture of manners and characters, 
but not of particular persons. Menander was the most distinguished 
author of this kind, among the Greeks ; and both from the imitations 
of him by Terence, and the account given of him by Plutarch, we have 
much reason to regret that his writings have perished ; as he appears 
to have reformed in a very high degree the public taste, and to have set 
the model of correct, elegant, and moral comedy. 

The only remains which we now have of the new comedy, among the 
ancients, are the plays of Plautus and Terence ; both of whom were 
formed upon the Greek writers. Plantus is distinguished for very ex- 
pressive language, and a great degree of the vis comica. As he wrote 
in an early period, he bears several marks of the rudeness of the dra- 
matic art among the Romans, in his time. He opens his plays with 
prologues, which sometimes pre-occupy the subject of the whole piece. 
The representation, too, and the action of the comedy, are sometimes 
confounded ; the actor departing from his character, and addressing the 
audience. There is too much low wit and scurrility in Plautus ; too 
much of quamt conceit, and play upon words. But withal, he displays 
more variety, and more force than Terence. His characters are always 
strongly marked, though sometimes coarsely. His Amphytrion has been 
copied both by Moliere and by Dryden ; and his Miser also (in the Au- 
lularia,) is the foundation of a capital play of Moliere's, which has 
been once and again imitated on the English stage. Than Terence, 
nothing can be more delicate, more polished, and elegant. His style is 
a model of the purest and most graceful Latinity. His dialogue is 
always decent and correct ; and he possesses, beyond most writers, the 
art of relating with that beautiful and picturesque simplicity, which 
never fails to please. His morality is, in general, unexceptionable. The 
situations which he introduces, are often tender and interesting ; and 
many of his sentiments touch the heart. Hence, he may be considered as 
the founder of that serious comedy, which has, oflate years, been revived, 
and of which I shall have occasion afterward to speak. If he fails irt 
any thing, it is in sprightliness and strength. Both in his characters., 
and in his plots, there is too much sameness and uniformity throughout all 
his plays ; he copied Menander, and is said not to have equalled him.* 
In order to form a perfect comic author, an union would be requisite of 
the spirit and fire of Plautus, with the grace and correctness of Terence, 

When we enter on the view of modern comedy, one of the first; 
objects which presents itself, is, the Spanish theatre, which has been 
remarkably fertile in dramatic productions. Lopez de Vega, Guillin, 
and Calderon, are the chief Spanish comedians. Lopez de Vega, who 
is by much the most famous of them, is said to have written above a 
thousand plays ; but our surprise at the number of his productions will be 
diminished, by being informed of their nature. From the account which 
M. Perron de Gastera, a French writer, gives of them, it would seem that 

* Julius Caesar has given us his opinion of Terence, in the following lines, which 
are preserved in the life of Terence, ascribed to Suetonius : 

Tuquoque,tu in summis, dimidiate Menander^ 
Poneris et merito puri sermonis amator; 
Lenibus atque utinam scriptis adjuncta foret vis 
Comica, Ut asquato virtus polleret honore 
Cum Graecis, neque in hac despectus parte jaeeres J 
TJnu.m hoc maceror, et doleo tibi deesse 3 TerentL 

ppp 



4g£ * FKENCH COMEDJT. [LECT. XLY1L 

our Shakspeare is perfectly a regular and methodical author, in com- 
parison of Lopez. He throws aside all regard to the three unities, or 
to any of the established forms of dramatic writing. One play often 
includes many years, nay, the whole life of a man. The scene, during 
the first act, is laid in Spain, the next in Italy, and the third in Africa, 
His plays are mostly of the historical kind, founded on the annals of the 
country ; and they are generally, a sort of tragi-comedies ; or a mix- 
ture of heroic speeches, serious incidents, war and slaughter, with much 
ridicule and buffoonery. Angels and gods, virtues and vices, Christian 
religion and Pagan mythology, are all frequently jumbled together. In 
short, they are plays like no other dramatic compositions ; full of the ro- 
mantic and extravagant. At the same time, it is generally admitted, that 
in the works of Lopez de Vega, there are frequent marks of genius, 
and much force of imagination ; many well-drawn characters ; many 
happy situations ; many striking and interesting surprises ; and from 
the source of his rich invention, the dramatic writers of other countries 
are said to have frequently drawn their materials. He himself apologizes 
for the extreme irregularity of his composition, from the prevailing taste 
of his countrymen, who delighted in a variety of events, in strange and 
surprising adventures, and a labyrinth of intrigues, much more than in a 
natural and regularly conducted story. 

The general characters of the French comic theatre are, that it is 
correct, chaste, and decent. Several writers of considerable note it 
has produced, such as Regnard, Dufresny, Dancourt, and Marivaux j 
but the dramatic author, in whom the French glory most, and whom 
they justly place at the head of all their comedians, is the famous 
Moliere. There is, indeed, no author in all the fruitful and distinguished 
age of Louis XIV. who has attained a higher reputation than Moliere, 
-or who has more nearly reached the summit of perfection in his own 
art, according to the judgment of all the French critics, Voltaire 
boldly pronounces him to be the most eminent comic poet of any age or 
country ; nor, perhaps, is this the decision of mere partiality ; for taking 
him, upon the whole, I know none who deserves to be preferred to 
him. Moliere is always the satirist only of vice or folly. He has 
selected a great variety of ridiculous characters peculiar to the times m 
which he lived, and he has generally placed the ridicule justly. He 
possessed strong comic powers ; he is full of mirth and pleasantry ; and 
his pleasantry is always innocent. His comedies in verse, such as the 
Misanthrope and Tartuffe, are a kind of dignified comedy, in which vice 
is exposed in the style of elegant and polite satire. In his prose come- 
dies, though there is abundance of ridicule, yet there is never any thing 
found to offend a modest ear, or to throw contempt on sobriety and 
virtue. Together with those high qualities, Moliere has also some 
defects which Voltaire, though his professed panegyrist, candidly admits. 
He is acknowledged not to be happy in the unravelling of his plots. 
Attentive more to the strong exhibition of characters, than to the con-* 
duct of the intrigue, his unravelling is frequently brought on with too* 
little preparation, and in an improbable manner. In his verse come- 
dies, he is sometimes not sufficiently interesting, and too full of long 
speeches ; and in his more risible pieces in prose, he is censured for 
being too farcical. Few writers, however, if any, ever possessed the 
spirit, or attained the true end of comedy so perfectly, upon the whole r 



JE.ECT. XL VII. j ENGLISH COMEDY. 4 g 3 

as Moliere. His Tartufe, in the style of grave comedy, and his Avarc. % 
in the gay, are accounted his two capital productions. 

From the English theatre, we are naturally led to expect a greater 
variety of original characters in comedy, and bolder strokes of wit and 
humour, than are to be found on any other modern stage. Humour is, 
in a great measure, the peculiar province of the English nation. The 
nature of such a free government as ours ; and that unrestrained liberty 
which our manners allow to every man, of living entirely after his own 
taste, afford full scope to the display of singularity of character, and 
to the indulgence of humour in all its forms. Whereas, in France, the 
influence of a despotic court, the more established subordination of 
ranks, and the universal observance of the forms of politeness and deco- 
rum, spread a much greater uniformity over the outward behaviour and 
characters of men. Hence comedy has a more ample field, and can 
flow with a much freer vein in Britain than in France. But it is ex- 
tremely unfortunate, that, together with the freedom and boldness of 
the comic spirit in Britain, there should have been joined such a spirit of 
indecency and licentiousness, as has disgraced English comedy beyond 
that of any nation, since the days of Aristophanes* 

The first age, however, of English comedy, was not infected by this 
spirit. Neither the plays of Shakspeare, nor those of Ben Jon3on, can 
be accused of immoral tendency. Shakspeare's general character, 
which I gave in the last lecture, appears with as great advantage in his 
comedies as in his tragedies ; a strong, fertile, and creative genius, irre- 
gular in conduct, employed too often in amusing the mob, but singularly 
rich and happy in the description of characters and manners. Jonson 
is more regular in the conduct of his pieces, but stiff and pedantic ; 
though not destitute of dramatic genius. In the plays of Beaumont and 
Fletcher, much fancy and invention appear, and several beautiful pas- 
sages may be found. But, in general, they abound with romantic and 
improbable incidents, with overcharged and unnatural characters, and 
with coarse and gross allusions. Those comedies of the last age, by the 
change of public manners, and of the turn of conversation, since their 
time, are now become too obsolete to be very agreeable. For we must, 
observe, that comedy, depending much on the prevailing modes of 
external behaviour, becomes sooner antiquated than any other species 
of writing ; and, when antiquated, it seems harsh to us, and loses its 
power of pleasing. This is especially the case with respect to the 
comedies of our own country, where the change of manners is more 
sensible and striking, than in any foreign production. In our own coun- 
try, the present mode of behaviour is always the standard of politeness ; 
and whatever departs from it appears uncouth : whereas, in the writ- 
ings of foreigners, we are less acquainted with any standard of this kind, 
and, of course, are less hurt by the want of it. Flautus appeared more 
antiquated to the Romans, in the age of Augustus, than he does now to 
us. It is a high proof of Shakspeare's uncommon genius, that, notwith- 
standing these disadvantages, his character of Falstaff is to this day ad- 
mired, and his " Merry Wives of Windsor" read with pleasure 

It was not until the era of the restoration of king Charles II. that the 
licentiousness which was observed, at that period, to infect the court, 
and the nation in general, seized, in a peculiar manner, upon comedy as 
its province, and, for almost a whole century, retained possession of it. 
ft was then first, that the rake became the predominant character, and, 



484 ENGLISH COMEDY. [JJECT. XLVU; 

with some exceptions, the hero of every comedy. The ridicule was 
thrown, not upon vice and folly, but much more commonly upon chastity 
and sobriety. At the end of the play, indeed, the rake is commonly, in. 
appearance, reformed, and professes that he is to become a sober man : 
but throughout the play, he is set up as the model of a fine gentleman ; 
and the agreeable impression made by a sort of sprightly licentiousness, 
is left upon the imagination, as a picture of the pleasurable enjoyment 
of life ; while the reformation passes slightly away, as a matter of mere 
form. To what sort of moral conduct such public entertainments as 
these tend to form the youth of both sexes, may be easily imagined. 
Yet this has been the spirit which has prevailed upon the comic stage 
of Great Britain, not only during the reign of Charles II. but through- 
out the reigns of king William and queen Anne, and down to the days 
of king George II. 

Dryden was the first considerable dramatic writer after the restora- 
tion ; in whose comedies, as in all his works, there are found many 
strokes of genius, mixed with great carelessness, and visible marks of 
hasty composition. As he sought to please only, he went along with the 
manners of the times ; and has carried through all his comedies, that 
vein of dissolute licentiousness, which was then fashionable. In some 
of them, the indecency was so gross, as to occasion, even in that age, a 
prohibition of being brought upon the stage.* 

Since his time, the writers of comedy, of greatest note, have been 
.Gibber, Vanburgh, Farquhar, and Congreve. Gibber has written a 
great many comedies ; and though in several of them, there be much 
sprightliness, and a certain pert vivacity peculiar to him, yet they are so 
forced and unnatural in the incidents, as to have generally sunk into 
obscurity, except two which have always continued in high favour with 
the public, " The Careless Husband," and " The Provoked Husband." 
The former is remarkable for the polite and easy turn of the dialogue ; 
and, with the exception of one indelicate scene, is tolerably moral too in 
the conduct, and in the tendency. The latter, w The Provoked Hus- 
band," (which was the joint production of Vanburgh and Gibber) is, 
perhaps, on the whole, the best comedy in the English language. It is 
liable, indeed, to one critical objection, of having a double plot ; as the 
incidents of the Wronghead family, and those of Lord Townley's, are 
separate, and independent of each other. But this irregularity is com- 
pensated by the natural characters, the fine painting, and the happy 
strokes of humour with which it abounds. We are, indeed, surprised 
to find so unexceptionable a comedy proceeding from two such loose 
authors ; for, in its general strain, it is calculated to expose licentious- 
ness and folly ; and would do honour to any stage. 

Sir John Vanburgh has spirit, wit, and ease; but he is, to the last 
<!egree, gross and indelicate. He is one of the most immoral of all our 
comedians. His " Provoked Wife" is full of such indecent sentiments 
and allusions, as ought to explode it out of all reputable society. His 
** Relapse" is equally censurable ; and these are his only two conside- 

* " The mirth which be excites in comedy will, perhaps, be found not so much 
to arise from any original humour, or peculiarity of character, nicely distinguished 
and diligently pursued, as from incidents and circumstances, artifices and surprises,^ 
from jests of action rather than sentiment. What he had of humorous or passionate, 
he seems to have had, not from nature, but from other poets : if not always a pla- 
giary, yet, at least, an imitator, John-son's Life of Dryrltv,-, 



LECT. XLVIl.] ENGLISH COMEDY, 43^ 

rable pieces. Congreve is unquestionably a writer of genius. He is 
lively, witty, and sparkling ; full of character, and full of action. His 
chief fault as a comic writer is, that he overflows with wit. It is often 
introduced unseasonably ; and, almost every where, there is too great 
a proportion of it for natural well-bred conversation.* Farquhar is a 
light and gay writer ; less correct and less sparkling than Congreve 1 
but he has more ease ; and, perhaps fully as great a share of the vis 
comica. The two best and least exceptionable of his plays, are the 
" Recruiting Officer," and the " Beaux's Stratagem." I say, the least 
exceptionable; for, in general, the tendency of both Congreve and 
Farquhar's plays is immoral. Throughout them all, the rake, the loose 
intrigue, and the life of licentiousness, are the objects continually held 
up to view ; as if the assemblies of a great and polished nation could 
be amused with none but vicious objects. The indelicacy of these 
writers, in the female characters which they introduce, is particularly 
remarkable. Nothing can be more awkward than their representations 
of a woman of virtue and honour. Indeed, there are hardly any 
female characters in their plays except two ; women of loose principles, 
or when a virtuous character is attempted to be drawn, women of 
affected manners. 

The censure which I have now passed upon these celebrated come- 
dians, is far from being over-strained or severe. Accustomed to the 
indelicacy of our own comedy, and amused with the wit and humour of 
it, its immorality too easily escapes our observation. But all foreigners, 
the French especially, who are accustomed to a better regulated and 
more decent stage, speak of it with surprise and astonishment. Vol- 
taire, who is assuredly none of the most austere moralists, plumes 
himself not a little upon the superior bienseance of the French theatre ; 
and says, that the language of English comedy is the language of de- 
bauchery, not of politeness. M. Moralt, in his letters upon the French 
and English nations, ascribes the corruption of manners in London to 
comedy, as its chief cause. Their comedy, he says, is like that of no 
other country ; it is the school in which the youth of both sexes fami- 
liarize themselves with vice, which is never represented there as vice a 
"but as mere gaiety. As for comedies, says the ingenious M. Diderot, in, 
bis observations upon dramatic poetry, the English have none ; they 
have, in their place, satires, full indeed of gaiety and force, but without 
morals, and without taste ; sans mceurs, et sans govt. There is no 
wonder, therefore, that Lord Kaimes, in his Elements of Criticism, 
should have expressed himself upon this subject, of the indelicacy of 
English comedy, in terms much stronger than any that I have used ; 
concluding his invective against it in these words : " How odious ought 
those writers to be, who thus spread infection through their native 
country ; employing the talents which they have received from their 
Maker most traitorously against himself, by endeavouring to corrupt and 
disfigure his creatures. If the comedies of Congreve did not rack him 
with remorse, in his last moments, he must have been lost to all sense of 
virtue." Vol. 11. 479. 

I am happy, however, to have it in my power to observe, that of late 

* Dr. Johnson says of him in his life, that " his personages are a kind of intelleo 
tual gladiators ; every sentence is to ward, or to strike ; the contest of smartness is 
never intermitted ; his wit is ?>. meteor, playing to and fro, with alternate corrus^a« 
?JOBS." 



480 ENGLISH COMEDY. [LECT. XLVIL 

years, a sensible reforantion has begun to take place in English comedy. 
We have, at last, become ashamed of making our public entertainments 
Fest wholly upon profligate characters and scenes ; and our later come- 
dies, of any reputation, are much purified from the licentiousness of 
former times. If they have not the spirit, the ease, and the wit of 
Congreve and Farquahar, in which respect they must be confessed to be 
somewhat deficient : this praise, however, they justly merit, of being 
innocent and moral. 

For this reformation, we are, questionless, much indebted to the 
French theatre, which has not only been, at all times, more chaste and 
inoffensive than ours, but has, within these few years, produced a spe- 
cies of comedy, of a still graver turn than any that I have yet mentioned. 
This which is called the serious, or tender comedy, and was termed by 
its opposers, La Comedia Larmoyante, is not altogether a modern in- 
vention. Several of Terence's plays, as the Andria, in particular, par- 
take of this character ; and as we know that Terence copied Menander, 
we have sufficient reason to believe that his comedies also, were of the 
same kind. The nature of this composition does not, by any means, 
exclude gayety and ridicule ; but it lays the chief stress upon tender 
and interesting situations ; it aims at being sentimental, and touching the 
heart by means of the capital incidents ; it makes our pleasure arise> 
not so much from the laughter which it excites, as from the tears of 
affection and joy which it draws forth. 

In English, Steele's Conscious Lover3 is a comedy which approaches 
to this character, and it has always been favourably received by the 
public. In French, there are several dramatic compositions of this kind, 
which possess considerable merit and reputation ; such as the " Mela- 
mde," and " Prejuge a la Mode," of La Chaussee ; the Pere de Fa- 
mille," of Diderot; the " Cenie," of Mad. Graffigny ; and the " Na- 
nine," and " L'Enfant Prodigue," of Voltaire. 

When this form of comedy first appeared in France, it excited a great 
controversy among the critics. It was objected to, as a dangerous and 
unjustifiable innovation in composition. It is not comedy, said they, for 
it is not founded on laughter and ridicule. It is not tragedy, for it does 
not involve us in sorrow. By what name then can it be called ? or what 
pretensions hath it to be comprehended under dramatic writing ? But 
this was trifling, in the most egregious manner, with critical names and 
distinctions, as if these had invariably fixed the essence, and ascertained 
the limits, of every sort of composition. Assuredly, it is not necessary 
that all comedies should be formed on one precise model. Some may 
be entirely light and gay ; others may incline more to the serious ; some 
may partake of both ; and all of them, properly executed, may furnish 
sgreeable and useful entertainment to the public, by suiting the different 
tastes of men.* Serious and tender comedy has no title to claim to 
itself the possession of the stage, to the exclusion of ridicule and gayety. 
But when it retains only its proper place, without usurping the province 
of any other ; when it is carried on with resemblance to real life, and 
without introducing romantic and unnatural situations, it may certainly 
prove both an interesting and an agreeable species of dramatic writing. 

* " II y a beaucoup de tres bonnes pieces ou il ne regne que de la gayete : d'autres 
routes serieuses ; d'autres melaugees ; d'autres ou Pattendrissement va jusq'aux 
7armes. 11 ne faut donner exclusion k aucune genre ; et si Ton me demandoit, que! 
genre est le meillem* ? Je repondrofs celniqui est le mien* fraite-," Voltaire*. 



XECT.XLVIt] ENGLISH COMEDY. 437 

If it become insipid and drawling, this must be imputed to the fault of 
the author, not to the nature of the composition, which may admit much 
liveliness and vivacity. 

In general, whatever form comedy assumes, whether gay or serious, 
it may always be esteemed a mark of society advancing in true politeness, 
when those theatrical exhibitions, which are designed for public amuse- 
ment, are cleared from indelicate sentiment or immoral tendency. 
Though the licentious buffoonery of Aristophanes amused the Greeks 
for a while, they advanced, by degrees, to a chaster and juster taste : 
and the like progress of refinement maybe concluded to take place- 
among us, when the public receive with favour, dramatic compositions of 
such a strain and spirit, as entertained the Greeks and Romans, in the 
days of Menander and Terence, 



LNDEX. 



Atctnts, thrown farther back from the ter- 
mination in the English than in any other 
language, 89. Seldom more than one in 
English words, 329. Govern the mea- 
sure of English verse, 383. 

Achilles, his character in the Iliad examin- 
ed, 433. 

Action, much used to assist language in an 
imperfect state, 57. And by ancient ora- 
tors and players, 58. Fundamental rule 
of propriety in, 335. Caution with res- 
pect to, 336. In epic poetry, the requi- 
sites of, 423. 

Acts, the division of a play into five, an 
arbitrary limitation, 458. These pauses 
in representations ought to fall proper- 
ly, 459. 

Adam, his character in Milton's Paradise 
Lost, 451. 

Addison, general view of his Essay on the 
Pleasures of the Imagination, 28. His 
invocation of the muse in his Campaign, 
censured, 44. Blemishes in his style, 103, 
104, 111. Ease and perspicuity of, 114, 
115. 117. His beautiful description of 
light and colours, 139. Instance of his 
use of metaphor, 148. Improper use of 
similes, 165. His general character as a 
writer, 187. Character of the Spectator, 
193. Critical examination of some of those 
papers, 194. Remarks on his criticism 
of Tasso's Aminta, 395, note. His tra- 
gedy of Cato critically examined, 457. 
463. 467. 469. 

Adjectives, common to all languages, 80. 
How they came to be classed with nouns, 
ibid. 

Adverbs, their nature and use defined, 84. 
Importance of their position in a sentence 
illustrated, 103. 

Mneid of Virgil, critical examination of that 
poem, 437. The subjects, ibid. Action, 
438. Is deficient in characters, ibid. 
Distribution and management of the sub- 
ject, ibid. Abounds with awful and ten- 
der scenes, 439. The descent of JEneas 
into he\\, ibid. The poem left unfinished 
by Virgil, 440. 

Mschines, a comparison between him and 
Demosthenes, 243. 

Mschylus, his character as a tragic writer, 
470. 

Mtna, remarks on Virgil's description of 
that mountain, 42. And on that by Sir 
Richard Blackmore, 43. 

Affectation, the disadvantages of, in public 
speaking, 336. 

Ages, four, peculiarly fruitful in learned 

men, pointed out, 347. 
Akenside, his comparison between sublimity 
in natural and moral objects, 33. note. 
Instance of his happy allusion to figures, 

Q<iq 



139. Character of his Pleasures of the 
Imagination, 401. 

Alphabet of letters, the consideration which 
led to the invention of, 68. Remote ob- 
scurity of this invention, 69. The alpha- 
bets of different nations derived from one 
common source, ibid. 

Allegory, explained, 150. Anciently a fa- 
vourite method of conveying instructions, 
151. Allegorical personages improper 
agents in epic poetry, 429. 449. 

Ambiguity in style, from whence it pro- 
ceeds, 103. 

Amplification in speech, what, 171. Its 
principal instrument, ibid. 

American languages, the figurative style of, 
60. 137. 

Anagnorisis, in ancient tragedy explained, 
460. 

Annals, and history, the distinction between, 
365. 

Ancients and moderns distinguished, 347. 
The merits of ancient writers are now 
finally ascertained, 348. The progress of 
knowledge favourable to the moderns, in 
forming a comparison between them, 349. 
In philosophy and history, ibid. The ef- 
forts of genius greater among the ancients, 
350. A mediocrity of genius now mora 
diffused, 351. 

Antithesis, in language explained, 167. 
The too frequent use of, censured, 168. 

Apostrophe, the nature of this figure explain- 
ed, 161. Fine one from Cicero, 260, note, 

Arabian Nights entertainment, a character 
of those tales, 373. 

Arabian poetry, its character, 380. 

Arbuthnot, character of his epistolary wri- 
ting, 372. 

Architecture, sublimity in, whence it arises^ 
32. The sources of beauty in, 49. 

Arguments, the proper management of, in 
a discourse, 316. Analytic and synthe- 
tic methods, 317. Arrangement of, 313, 
Are not to be too much multiplied, 320. 

Ariosto, character of his Orlando Furioso, 
374. 445. 

Aristotle, his rules for dramatic and epic 
composition, whence derived, 25. His 
definition of a sentence, 101. His extend- 
ed sense of the term metaphor. 142. 
Character of his style, 177. 180. His in- 
stitutions of rhetoric, 242. 345. His de- 
finition of tragedy considered, 453. His 
observations on tragic characters, 465. 

Aristophanes, character of his comedies, 480. 

Arithmetical figures, universal characters, 68. 

Ark of the covenant, choral service per- 
formed in the procession of bringing it 
back to Mount Zion, 412. 

Armstrong, character of his Art of FreserT- 
ing Health, 402. 



490 



INDEX. 



Art, works of, considered as a source of 
beauty, 49. 

Articles, in language, the use of, 73. Their 
importance in the English language illus- 
trated, 74. 

Articulation, clearness of, necessary in pub- 
lic speaking, 329. 

Associations, academical, recommended, 
343. Instructions for the regulation of, 
344. 

Athenians, ancient, character of, 238. Elo- 
quence of, 239. 

Alterbury, a more harmonious writer than 
Tillotson, 128. Critical examination of 
one of his sermons, 292. His exordium 
to a 30th of January sermon, 309. 

Attici and Asiani, parties at Rome, account 
of, 247. 

Authors, petty, why no friends to criticism, 

26. Why the most ancient afford the most 

striking instances of sublimity, 36. Must 

write with purity to gain esteem, 90, 91. 

B. 

Bacon, his observations on romances, 373. 

Ballads, have great influence over the man- 
ners of a people, 373. Were the first ve- 
hicles of historical knowledge and instruc- 
tion, 379. 

Bar, the eloquence of, defined, 236. Why 
more confined than the pleadings before 
ancient tribunals, 253. Distinction be- 
tween the motives of pleading at the bar, 
and speaking in popular assemblies, 268. 
Tn what respects ancient pleadings differ 
from those of modern times, ibid. In- 
structions for pleaders, 269. 313. 

Bards, ancient, the first founders of law and 
civilization, 379. 

Barrow, Dr. character of his style, 178. 
Character of his sermons, 291. 

Beaumont and Fletcher, their characters as 
dramatic poets, 483. 

Beauty, the emotion raised by, distinguish- 
ed from that of sublimity, 45. Is a term 
of vague application, ibid. Colours, 46. 
Figures, ibid. Hogarth's line of beauty, 
and line of grace considered, 47. Motion, 
ibid. A landscape the most complete 
assemblage of beautiful otyec\s,ibid. The 
human countenance, 48. Works of art, 
49. The influence of fitness and design 
in our ideas of beauty, ibid. Beauty in 
literary composition, 50. Imitation, 51. 

Bergerus, a German critic, writes a trea- 
tise on the sublimity of Caesar's Com- 
mentaries, 35. 

Berkeley, bishop, character of his Dialogues 
on the Existence of Matter, 369. 

Biography, as a class of historical com- 
position, characterized, 365. 

Blacktnore, Sir Richard, remarks on his 

description of Mount JEtna, 43. 
Blackwell, his character as a writer, 1S8. 
Boileau, his character as a didactic poet, 

404. 
Bolingbroke, instances of inaccuracy in his 
style, 109. 119. A beautiful climax from, 
116. A beautiful metaphor from, H& 



His general character as a politician and 
philosopher,ikU His general character 
as a writer, 189. 343. 

Bombast in writing described, 44. 

Bossu, his definition of an epic poem, 420. 
His account of the composition of the 
Iliad, 421. 

Bossuet, M. instances of apostrophes to 
personified objects, in his funeral orations, 
160, note. Conclusion of his funeral ora- 
tion on the Prince of Conde, 326. 

Britain, Great, not eminent for the study of 
eloquence, 251. Compared with France 
in this respect, 252, 

Bruyere, bis parallel between the eloquence 
of the pulpit and the bar, 280, note. 

Buchanan, his character as an historian, 
364. 

Building, how rendered sublime, 32. 
C. 

Cadmus, account of his alphabet, 69. 

Ccesar's Commentaries, the style of cha- 
racterized, 35. Is considered by Bergenia 
as a standard of sublime writing, ibid. In- 
stance of his happy talent in historical 
painting, 361, note. His character of 
Terence the dramatist, 481, note. 

Camoens, critical examination of hisLusiad, 
446. Confused machinery of, ibid. 46. 

Campbell, Dr. his observations on English 
particles, J9f note. 

Carmel, Mount, metaphorical allusions to 
in Hebrew poetry, 415. 

Casimir, his character as a lyric poet, 399. 

Catastrophe, the proper conduct of, in dra- 
matic representations, 460. 

Caudince Furcae, Livy's happy description of 
the disgrace of the Roman army there. 
360. 

Celtic language, its antiquity and character, 

85. The remains of it where to be founds 

86. Poetry its character, 380. 
Characters, the dangers of labouring them 

too much in historical works, 363. The 
due requisites of, in tragedy, 464. 

Chinese language, character of, 68. And 
writing, 67. 

Chivalry, origin of, 374. 

Chorus, ancient, described, 455. Was the 
origin of tragedy, ibid. Inconveniences 
of, ibid. How it might properly be intro- 
duced on the mydern theatre, 457. 

Chronology, a due attention to, necessary in 
historical compositions, 355. 

Chrysostome, St., his oratorical character, 
250. 

Cibber, his character as a dramatic writer, 
484. 

Cicero, his ideas of taste, 16, note. His dis- 
tinction between amare and diligere, 97, 
His observations on style, 102. Very at- 
tentive to the beauties of climax, 116. Is 
the most harmonious of all writers, 121. 
His remarks on the power of music in 
orations, 123. His attentien to harmony 
too visible, 127. Instance of his happy 
talent of adapting sound to sense, 128, 



INDEX, 



491 



His account of the origin of figurative 
language, 136. His observations on suit- 
ing language to the subject, 144. His 
rule for the use of metaphor, 145. In- 
stance of antithesis in, 168. The figure 
of speech called vision, 171. His caution 
against bestowing profuse ornaments on 
an oration, 174. His distinction of style, 
176. His own character as a writer, 177. 
His character of the Grecian orators, 240. 
His own character as an orator, 246. 
Compared with Demosthenes, 247. Mas- 
terly apostrophe in, 260, note. His me- 
thod of studying the judicial causes he 
undertook to plead, 270. State of the 
prosecution of Avitus Cluentius, 273. 
Analysis of Cicero's oration for him, ibid. 
The exordium of his second oration 
against Rullus, 306. His method of pre- 
paring introductions to his orations, 308. 
Excelled in narration, 314. His defence 
of Milo, ibid. 319. Instance of the pa- 
thetic in his last oration against Verres, 
324. Character of his treatise de Oralore, 
345. Character of his dialogues, 369. 
His epistles, 371. 

Clarendon, lord, remarks on his style, 108. 
His character as an historian, 364. 

Clarke, Dr. the style of his sermons charac- 
terized, 290. 

Classics, ancient, their merits now finally 
settled beyond controversy, 348. The 
study of them recommended, 352. 

Climax, a great beauty in composition, 116. 
In what it consists, 171. 

Cluentius, Avitus, history of his prosecution, 
273. His cause undertaken by Cicero, 
ibid. Analysis of Cicero's oration for him, 
ibid. 

Colours, considered as the foundation of 
beauty, 46. 

Comedy, how distinguished from tragedy, 
452, 476. Rules for the conduct of, 477. 
The characters in, ought to be of our own 
country, and our own time, ibid. Two 
kinds of, 478. Characters ought to be 
distinguished, 479. Style, ibid. Rise and 
progress to comedy, ibid. Spanish come- 
dy, 481. French comedy, 482. English 
comedy, 483. Licentiousness of, from the 
era of the restoration, ibid. The restora- 
tion of, to what owing, 486. General re- 
marks, 487. 

Comparison, distinguished from metaphor, 
141 . The nature of this figure explained, 163. 

Composition. See Literary composition. 

Congreve, the plot of his Mourning Bride 
embarrassed, 458. General character of 
this tragedy, 475. His comedies, 485. 

Conjugation of verbs, the varieties of, 81. 

6'oni?tdion,distinguishedfrompersuasion,235. 

Copulatives, caution for the use of them, 1 11. 

Corntille, his character as a tragic writer, 
472. 

Couplets, the first introduction of, into 
English poetry, 387. 

Cowley, instances of forced metaphors in" 



his poems, 145. His use of similes censu- 
red, 166. His general character as a poet, 
399. 

Crevier, his character of several eminent, 
French writers, 342, note. 

Criticism, true and pedantic distinguished, 
12. Its object, 25. Its origin, ibid. Why 
complained of by petty authors, 26. Ma; 
sometimes decide against the voice of th< 
public, ibid. 

Cyphers, or arithmetical figures, a kind of; 
universal character, 68. 
D. 

David, King, his magnificent institutions 
for the cultivation of sacred music and 
poetry, 411. His character as a poet, 
418. 

Debate in popular assemblies, the eloquence 
of defined, 234. More particularly con- 
sidered, 256. Rules for, 257. 

Declamation, unsupported by sound reason- 
ing, false eloquence, 256. 

Declension of nouns considered in variouf 
languages, 76. Whether cases or pre 
positions were most anciently used, 77 
Which of them are most useful and beau 
tiful, 78. 

Deities, heathen, probable cause of th( 
number of, 155. 

Deliberative orations, what, 255. 

Delivery, the importance of in public speak 
ing, 261. 326. The four chief requisite 
in, 328. The powers of voice, ibid. Ar; 
ticulation,z7nV. Pronunciation, 329. Em 
phasis,330. Pauses, 331. Declamatorv 
delivery, 334. Action, 335. Affectation 
336. 

Demetrius Phalerus % the rhetorician, hi 
character, 244. 

Demonstrative orations, what, 255. 

Demosthenes, his eloquence characterize( 
239. His expedients to surmount the di 
advantages of his person and address, 24$ 
His opposition to Philip of Macedon, 24; 
His rivalship with JEschines, ibid. Hi 
style and action, 244. Compared wit 
Cicero, 247. Why his orations still pleas 
in perusal, 256. Extracts from his Philif 
pics, 262. His definition of the seven 
points of oratory, 326. 

Description, the great test of a poet's irmi 
gination, 404. Selection of circumstar 
ces, ibid. Inanimate objects should b 
enlivened, 407. Choice of Epithets, 40! 

Description and imitation, the distinctio 
between, 51. 

Des Brosses, his speculations on the er 
pressive power of radical letters and sy 
lables, 56, note. 

Dialogue writing, the properties of, 36 
Is very difficult to execute, ibid. Moder 
dialogues characterized, ibid. 

Didactic poetry, its nature explained, 39 
The most celebrated productions in th 
class, specified, 400. Rules for compos 
tions of this kind, ibid. Proper ernbe 
lishments of, 401. 



4i>: 



:sDEX. 



Diderot, M. his character of English co- 

. medy, 543. 

Dido, her character in the iEneid examined, 
438. 

Dicn^ius of Halicarnassus, his ideas of ex- 
cellency in a sentence. 122. His distinc- 
tion of style, 176. Character of his trea- 
tise on Grecian oratory, 241. His conl- 
parison between Lysias and Isocrates, 242, 
note. His criticism on Thucydides, 355. 

Discourse. See Oration. 

Dramatic Poety, the origin of, 381. Dis- 
tinguished by its objects, 452. See Tra- 
gedy and Comedy. 

Dryden, one of the first reformers of our 
style, 180. Johnson's character of his 
prose style, ibid. note. His character as 
a poet, 387. His character of Shaks- 
peare, 474, note. His own character as a 
dramatic writer, 475. 4S4. 

Du Bos, Abbe, his remark on the theatri- 
cal compositions of the ancients, 123. 
E. 

Education, liberal and essential requisite for 
eloquence, 340. 

Egypt* tue style of the hieroglyphical writ- 
ing of, 66. This an early stage of the art 
of writing, ibid. The alphabet probably 
invented in that country, 69. 

Emphasis, its importance in public speaking, 
330. Rule for, ibid. 

Eloquence, the several objects of considera- 
tion under this head, 234. Definition of 
the term, ibid. 337. Fundamental max- 
ims of the art, 234. Defended against the 
objection of the abuse of the art of persua- 
sion, ibid. Three kinds of eloquence dis- 
tinguished, 235. Oratory, the highest de- 
gree of, the offspring of passion, 236. Re- 
quisites for eloquence, 237. French elo- 
quence, ibid. Grecian, 238. Rise and 
character of the rhetoricians of Greece, 
240. Roman, 245. The Attici and Asiani, 
247. Comparison between Cicero and 
Demosthenes, ibid. The schools of the 
declaimers, 250. The eloquence of the 
primitive fathers of the church, ibid. Ge- 
neral remarks on modern eloquence, 251. 
Parliament, 253. The bar and pulpit, ibid. 
254. The three kinds of orations distin- 
guished by the ancients, 255. These dis- 
tinctions how far correspondent with those 
made at present, ibid. Eloquence of po- 
pular assemblies considered, ibid. The 
foundation of eloquence, 256. The dan- 
ger of trusting to prepared speeches at 
public meetings, 257. Necessary preme- 
ditation pointed out, ibid. Method, 258. 
Style and expression, ibid. Impetuosity, 
259. Attention to decorum, 260. Deli- 
very, 261. 326. Summary, 261. See Ci- 
cero, Demosthenes, Oration, and Pulpit. 
English language, the arrangement of words 
in more refined than that of ancient lan- 
guages, 64. But more limited, ibid. The 
principles of general grammar seldom 
applied to it, 71. The important use of 



articles in, 73. Ail substantive nou, 
inanimate objects of the neuter gender,74. 
The place of declension in, supplied by 
prepositions, 76. The various tenses of 
English verbs, 82. Historical view of the 
English language, 85. The Celtic, the 
primitive language of Britain, ibid. The 
Teutonic tongue the basis of our present 
speech, 86. Its irregularities accounted 
for, 87. Its copiousness, ibid. Compa- 
red with the French language, ibid. Its 
style characterized, 88. Its flexibility, ibid. 
Is more harmonious than is generally al- 
lowed, 89. Is rather strong than graceful, 
ibid. Accent thrown farther back in Eng- 
lish words, than in those of any other 
language, ibid. General properties of the 
English tongue, ibid. Why so loosely and 
inaccurately written, 90. The fundamen- 
tal rules of syntax, common both to the 
English and Latin, ibid. No author can 
gain esteem if he does not write with puri- 
ty, 91 . Grammatical authors recommend- 
ed, ibid, note. 

£/nc poetry, the standards of, 361. Is the 
highest effort of poetical genius, 420. — 
The characters of, obscured by critics, 
ibid. Examination of Bossu's account of 
the formation of the Iliad, ibid. Epic poe- 
try considered as to its moral tendency, 
422. Predominant character of, 423. 
Action of, ibid. Episodes, 424. The sub- 
ject should be of remote date, 425. Modern 
history more proper for dramatic writing 
than for epic poetry, ibid. The story 
must be interesting and skilfully mana- 
ged, 426. Tbe intrigue, ibid. The. ques- 
tion considered whether it ought to end 
successfully, ibid. Duration for the ac- 
tion, 427. Characters of the personages, 
ibid. The principal hero, ibid. The 
machinery, 428. Narration, 429. Loose 
observations, 430. 

Episode, defined with reference to epic poe- 
try, 424. Rules for the conduct of, ibid. 

Epistolary writing, general remarks on, 369. 

Eve, her character in Milton's Paradise Lost, 
451. 

Euripides, instance of his excellence in the 
pathetic, 468. note. His character as a 
tragic writer, 471. 

Exclamations, the proper use of, 169. Mode 
of their operation, 170. Rule for the 
employment of, ibid. 

Exercise "improves both bodi/y and mental 
powers, 17. 

Exordium of a discourse, the objects of, 306. 
Rules for the composition of, 307. 

Explication of the subject of a sermon, ob- 
servation on, 315. 
F 

Face, human, the beauty of, complex, 48. 

Farquhar, his character as a dramatic wri- 
ter, 542. . 

Fathers, Latin, character of their style ot 
eloquence, 250. 

Fenelon, archbishop, his parallel between 



INDEX 



493 



Demosthenes and Cicero, 249. His re- 
marks on the composition of a sermon, 
311. Critical examination of his adven- 
tures of Telemachus, 447. 

Fielding, a character of his novels, 376. 

Figurative style of language denned, 131. 
Is not a scholastic invention, but a natural 
effusion of imagination, 132. How describ- 
ed by rhetoricians, ibid. Will not render 
a cold or empty composition interesting, 
134. The pathetic and sublime reject 
figures of speech, ibid. Origin of, ibid. 
How they contribute to the beauty of 
style, 137. Illustrate description, 138. 
Heightened emotion, 139. The rhetorical 
names and classes of figures frivolous, 
140. The beauties of composition not 
dependent on tropes and figures, 173. 
Figures must always rise naturally from 
the subject,ibid. Are not to be profuse- 
ly used, ibid. The talent of using deri- 
ved from nature, and not to be created, 
174. If improperly introduced, are a de- 
formity, ibid, note. See Metaphor. 

Figure considered as a source of beauty, 
46. 

Figures of speech, the origin of, 60. 

Figures of thought among rhetoricians, de- 
fined, 133. 

Fitness and design, considered as sources of 
beauty, 49. 

Fleece, a poem, harmonious passage from, 
130. 

Fontenelle, character of his dialogues, 369. 

French Norman, when introduced into Eng- 
land, 86. 

French writers, general remarks on their 
style, 178. Eloquence, 237, 251. French 
and English oratory compared, 252. 

Frigidity in writing characterized, 44. 
G 

Gay, a character of his pastorals, 394. 

Gender of nouns, foundation of, 74. 

Genius distinguished from taste, 27. Its im- 
port, ibid. Includes taste, ibid. The 
pleasures of the imagination, a striking 
testimony of divinebenevolence,29. True, 
is nursed by liberty, 237. In arts and wri- 
ting why displayed more in one age than 
another, 347. Was more vigorous in the 
Ancients than in the moderns, 350. A 
general mediocrity of now diffused, 351. 

Gesner a character of his Idylls, 394. 

Gestures in public oratory. See Jiction. 

Gil Bias of Le Sage, character of that no- 
vel, 375. 

Girard abbe, character of his Synonymes 
Francois, 100, note. 

Gordon, instances of his unnatural disposi- 
tion of words, 114. 

Gorgius of Leontium, the rhetorician, his 
character, 240. 

Gothic poetry, its character, 380. 

Gracchus, C. his declamations regulated by 
musical rules, 123. 

Grammar, general, the principles of, titles 
attended to by writers, 71. The division 



of the several parts of speech, ibid. Nouns 
substantive, 72. Articles, 73. Number, 
gender, and case of nouns, 74. Preposi- 
tions, 77. Pronouns, 79. Adjectives, 80. 
Verbs, 81. Verbs the most artificial com- 
plex of all the parts of speech, 83. Ad- 
verbs, 84. Prepositions and conjunc- 
tions, ibid. Importance of the study of 
grammar, 85. 

Grandeur. See Sublimity. 

Greece, short account of the ancient repub- 
lics of, 238. Eloquence carefully studied 
there, 239. Characters of the distinguish- 
ed orators of, ibid. Rise and character 
of the rhetoricians, 240. 

Greek, a musical language, 58. 122. Its 
flexibility, 88. Writers ditsinguished for 
simplicity, 186. 

Guarini, character of his Pastor Fido, 394. ' 

Guicciardini, his character as an historian, 
363. 

H. 

Habakkuk, sublime representation of the 
Deity in, 36. 

Harris, explanatory simile cited from, 164. 

Hebrew poetry, in what points of view to 
be considered, 410. The ancient pronun- 
ciaton of, lost, 411. Music and poetry, 
early cultivated among the Hebrews, ibid. 
Construction of Hebrew poetry, 412. Is 
distinguished by a concise, strong, figu- 
rative expression, 413. The metaphors 
employed in, suggested by the climate 
and nature of the land of Judea, 414. 416. 
Bold and sublime instances of personifi- 
cation in, ibid. Book of Proverbs, 417. 
Lamentations of Jeremiah, ibid. Book 
of Job, 418. 

Helen, her character in the Iliad examined, 
433. 

Hell, the various descents into, given by epic 
poets, show the gradual improvement of 
notions concerning a future state, 44S. 

Henriade. See Voltaire. 

Herodotus, his character as an historian, 
356. 

Heroism, sublime instances of pointed out, 
32. 

Hervey, character of his style, 183. 

Hieroglyphics, the second stage of writing, 
66. Of Egypt, ibid. 

Historians, modern, their advantages over 
the ancient, 349. Ancient models of, 351. 
The objects of their duty, 352. Character 
of Polybius, 354. Of Thucydides, 355. 
Of Herodotus and Tbuanus, 356. Primary 
qualities necessary in an historian, ibid. 
Character of Livy and Sallust, 357. Of 
Tacitus, ibid. Instructions and cautions 
to historians, ibid, How to preserve the 
dignity of narration, 350. How to render 
it interesting, ibid. Danger of refining too 
much in drawing characters, 362. Charac- 
ter of the Italian historians, 363, The 
French and English, 364. 

History, the proper objects and end of, 352, 
True, the characters of, 353. The differ- 



494 



IXDEX. 



ent classes of, ibid. General history, the 
proper conduct of, 354. The necessary 
qualities of historical narration, 359. The 
propriety of introducing orations in histo- 
ry examined, 362. And characters, ibid. 
The Italians the best modern historians, 
363. See Annals* Biography, Memoirs, 
and Novels. 

Hogarth, his analysis of beauty considered, 
47. 

Homer, not acquainted with poetry as a 
systematic art, 25. Did not possess a re- 
fined taste, 28. Instauces of sublimity in, 
37. Is remarkable for the use of personi- 
fication, 157. Story of the Iliad, 430. 
Remarks on, 431. His invention and 
judgment in the conduct of the poem, 432. 
Advantages and defects arising from his 
narrative speeches, ibid. His character, 
433. His machinery, 434. His style, 435. 
His skill in narrative description, ibid. 
His similes, 436. General character of 
his Odyssey, ibid. Defects of the Odyssey, 
437. Compared with Virgil, ibid. 

Hooker, a specimen of his style, 179. 
j Horace, figurative passages cited from, 138. 
Instance of mixed metaphor in, 148. 
Crowded metaphors, 149. His charac- 
ter as a poet, 351. 398. Was the reform- 
1 er of satire, 402. 

Humour, why the English possess this qua- 
» lity more eminently than other nations, 
4S3. 

Hyperbole, an explanation of that figure, 
152. Cautions for the use of, ibid. Two 
kinds of, 153. 

I. 

Ideas, abstract, entered into the first form- 
ation of language, 73. 

Jeremiah, his poetical character, 418. See 
Lamentations. 

Iliad, story of, 430. Remarks on, 431. The 
principal characters, 433. Machinery of, 
434. 

Imagination, the Pleasures of, as specified 
by Mr. Addison, 28. The powers of, to 
enlarge the sphere of our pleasure, a stri- 
king instance of divine benevolence, 29. 
Is the source of figurative language, 132. 
135. 

Imitation, considered as a source of pleasure 
to taste, 51. And description distinguish- 
ed, 52. 

Inferences from a sermon, the proper ma- 
nagement of, 325. 

Infinity of space, numbers, or duration, af- 
fect the mind with sublime ideas, 30. 

Interjections, the first elements of speech, 
55. 

Interrogation, instances of the happy use 
and effect of, 169. Mode of their opera- 
tion, 170, Rule for using, ibid. 
- Job, exemplification of the sublimity of ob- 
scurity in the book of, 31. Remarks on the 
style of, 411. The subject and poety of, 
419. Fine passage from, ibid. 

Johnson, his character of Dryden's prose 



style, 180, note. His remarks oa the style- 
of Swift, 224, note. His character of 
Thompson, 405, note. His character of 
Dryden's comedies, 484, note. His cha- 
racter of Congreve, 485, note. 

Jonson, Ben, his character as a dramatic 
poet, 483. 

Isceus, the rhetorician, his character, 242. 

Isaiah, sublime representation of the Deity 
in, 37. His description of the fall of the 
Assyrian empire, 162. His metaphors 
suited to the climate of Judea, 414, 415, 
His character as a poet, 418. 

Isocrates, the rhetorician, his character, 241. 

Judea, remarks on the climate and natural 
circumstances of that country, 414. 

Judicial orations, what, 255. 

Juvenal, a character of his satires, 402. 
K. 

Kaims, lord, his severe censures of English, 
comedies, 485. 

Knight errantry, foundation of the roman- 
ces concerning, 374. 

Knowledge, an essential requisite for Elo- 
quence, 340. The progress of, in favour 
of the moderns upon a comparison with 
the ancients, 350. The acquisition of, 
difficult in former ages, ibid. 
L. 

Lamentations of Jeremiah, the most perfect 
elegiac composition in the sacred Scrip- 
tures, 417. 

Landscape, considered as an assemblage of 
beautiful objects, 48. 

Language, the improvement of, studied 
even by rude nations, 9. In what the true 
improvement of language consists, 10. 
Importance of the study of language, ibid. 
Defined, 53. The present refinements 
oi,ibid. Origin and progress of, 54. The 
first elements of, 55. Analogy between 
words and things, ibid. The great assist- 
ance afforded by gestures, 57. The Chi- 
nese language, 58. The Greek and ^Ro- 
man languages, ibid. Action much used 
by ancient orators, ibid. Roman panto- 
mimes, 59. Great difference between an- 
cient and modern pronunciation, ibid. 
Figures of speech, the origin of, 60. Fi- 
gurative style of American languages, ibid. 
Cause of the decline of figurative language, 
61. The natural and original arrange- 
ment of words in speech, 62. The arrange- 
ment of words in modern languages, dif- 
ferent from that of the ancients, 63. An 
exemplification, ibid. Summary of the 
foregoing observations, 65. Its wonderful 
powers, 139. All language strongly tinc- 
tured with metaphor, 142. In modem 
productions, often better than the subjects 
of them, 233. Written and oral, distinc- 
tion between, 342. See Grammar, Style, 
and Writing. 

Latin language, the pronunciation of, musi- 
cal and gesticulating, 58. 122. The natu- 
ral arrangement of words in, 62. The 
want of articles a defect in, 73. Remarks 



INDEX, 



49, 



©a words deemed synonymous in, 97. 
learning, an essential requisite for elo- 
quence, 340. 
Lebanon, metaphorical allusions to, in He- 
brew poetry, 415. 
Lee, extravagant hyperbole quoted from, 
153. His character as a tragic poet, 475. 
Liberty, the nurse of true genius, 237. 
Literary composition, importance of the 
study of language, preparatory to, 11. 
The beauties of, indefinite, 50. To what 
class the pleasures received from elo- 
quence, poetry, and fine writing, are to be 
referred, 51 . The beauties of, not depend- 
ent on tropes and figures, 173. The dif- 
ferent kinds of, distinguished, 352. See 
History, Poetry, &c. 
Livy, his character as an historian, 357, 360. 
Locke, general character of his style, 181. — 
The style of his Treatise on Human Un- 
derstanding, compared with the writings 
of Lord Shaftesbury, 367. 
Longinus, strictures on his Treatise on the 
Sublime, 35. His account of the conse- 
quences of liberty, 237. His sententious 
opinion of Homer's Odyssey, 436. 
Lopes de la Vega, his character as a dramatic 

poet, 481. 
Love, too much importance and frequency 

allowed to, on the modern stage, 466. 
Lowth's English Grammar recommended, 
91, note, 112, note. His character of the 
prophet Ezekiel, 419. 
Lucan, instance of his destroying a sublime 
expression of Caesar, by amplification, 39. 
Extravagant hyperbole from, 154. Criti- 
cal examination of his Phnrsalia, 440. 
The subj ect, 441 . Characters and conduct 
of the story, ibid. 
Lucian, character of his dialogues, 369. 
Lucretius, his sublime representation of the 
dominion of superstition over mankind, 
32, note. The most admired passages in 
his Treatise, De Rerum Natura, 401. 
Lusiad. See Camoens. 
Lyric poetry, the peculiar character of, 396. 



Memoirs, their class in historical composition* 
assigned, 365. Why the French are fond 
of this kind of writing, ibid. 

Metalepsis, in figurative language explained,, 
141. 

Metaphor, in figurative style, explained, 141, 

142. All language strongly tinctured 
with, ibid. Approaches the nearest to 
painting of all the figures of speech, ibid. 
Rules to be observed in the conduct of, 

143. See Allegory. 

Metastasio, his character as a dramatic wri- 
ter, 473. 
Metonymy, in figurative style, explained, 

142. 
Mexico, historical pictures the records of that 

empire, 66. 
Milo, narrative of the rencounter between 

him and Clodius, by Cicero, 31 4. 
Milton, instances of sublimity in, 31,40,42. 
Of harmony, 121, 129. Hyperbolical 
sentiments of Satan in, 153. Striking in- 
stances of personification in, 157, 158, 
159. Excellence of his descriptive poe- 
try, 406. Who the proper hero of his 
Paradise Lost, 428. Critical examination 
of this poem, 450. His sublimity charac- 
terized, 451. His language and versifi- 
cation, 452. 

Moderns. See Ancients. 

Moliere, his character as a dramatic poet, 
482. 

Monboddo, lord, his observations on English 
and Latin verse, 384, note. 

Monotony, in language, often the result of 
too great attention to musical arrange- 
ment, 126. 

Montague, Lady Mary Wortley, a character 
of her epistolary style, 373. 

Montesquieu, character of his style, 177. 

Monumental inscriptions, the numbers suited 
to the style, 130. 

Moralt, M. his severe censure of English 
comedy, 485. 

More, Dr. Henry, character of his divine 
dialogues, 369. 



Four classes of odes, 397. Characters of Motion, considered as a source of beauty. 



the most eminent lyric poets, 398. 

Lvsias, the rhetorician, his character, 242. 
* M 

Machiavel, his character as an historian, 363. 

Machinery, the great use of, in epic poetry, 
428. Cautions for the use of, 429, 434. 

Mackensie, Sir George, instance of regular 
climax in his pleadings, 172. 

Man, by nature, both a poet and musician, 
378. 

Marivaux, a character of his novels, 375. 

Marmontel, his comparative remarks on 
French, English, and Italian poetry, 385, 
note. 

Marsy, Fr. his contrast between the charac- 
ters of Corneille and Racine, 473, note. 

Massillon, extracts from a celebrated sermon 
of his, 289, note. Encomium on, by Louis 
XIV. 292. His artful division of a text, 
313. 



47. 

Motte, M. de la, his observations on lyric 
poetry, 397, note. Remarks on his criti- 
cism on Homer, 436, note. 

Music, its influence on the passions, 378. 
Its union with poetry, ibid. Their sepa- 
ration injurious to each, 382. 
N 

Naivete, import of that French term, 185. 

Narration, an important point in pleadings 
at the bar, 313. 

Night scenes commonly sublime, 30. 

Nomic melody of the Athenians, what, 123. 

Novels, a species of writing, not so insignifi- 
cant as may be imagined, 373. Might be 
employed for very useful purposes, ibid, 
Rise and progress of fictitious history", 
ibid. Characters of the most celebrated 
romances and novels, 374. 

Novelty, considered as a source of beauty ,50, 



496 



TXDEX: 



JVbwns, substantive, the foundation of all 
grammar, 72. Number, gender, and ca- 
ses of, 74. 

O. 

Obscurity, not unfavourable tosublimity,31. 
Of style, owing to indistinct conceptions, 
93. 

Ode, the nature of defined, 396. Four dis- 
tinctions of, 397. Obscurity and irregu- 
larity, the great faults in, ibid. 

Odyssey, general character of, 436. Defects 
of, 437. 

GZdipus, an improper character for the stage, 
465. 

Orators ancient, declaimed in recitative, 
58. 

Orations, the three kinds of, distinguished 
by the ancients, 255. The present dis- 
tinctions of, ibid. Those in popular as- 
semblies considered, ibid. Prepared 
speeches not to be trusted to, 257. Ne- 
cessary degrees of premeditation, ibid. 
Method, 258. Style and expression, ibid. 
Impetuosity, 259. Attention to decorums, 
260. Delivery, 261, 326. The several 
parts of a regular oration, 305. Introduc- 
tion, 306. Introduction to replies, 310. 
Introduction to sermons, 311. Division 
of a discourse, ibid. Rules for dividing 
it, 312. Explication, 313. The argu- 
mentative part, 316. The pathetic, 320. 
The peroration, 325. Virtue necessary 
to the perfection of eloquence, 338. De- 
scription of a true orator, 340. Qualifi- 
cations for, ibid. The best ancient wri- 
ters on oratory, 345, 351. The use made 
of orations by the ancient historians, 362. 
See Eloquence. 

Oriental poetry, more characteristical of an 
age than of a country, 379. Style of 
Scripture language, 61. 

Orlando Furioso. See Ariosto. 

Ossian, instances of sublimity in his works, 
38. Correct metaphors, 147. Confused 
mixture of metaphorical and plain lan- 
guage in, ibid. Fine apostrophe, 161. 
Delicate simile, 164. Lively descriptions 
in, 408. 

Otway, his character as a tragic poet, 475. 

Pantomime, an entertainment of Roman 

origin, 59. 
Parables, Eastern, their general vehicle for 

the conveyance of truth, 416. 
Paradise Lost, critical review of that poem, 

450. The characters in, ibid. Sublimity 

of, 45 1 . Language and versification, 452 . 
Parentheses, cautions for the use of them, 

109. 
Paris, his character in the Iliad, examined, 

433. 
Parliament of Great Britain, why eloquence 

has never been so powerful an instrument 

in as in the ancient popular assemblies of 

Greece and Rome, 253. 
Parnel, his character aa a descriptive poet, 

406. 



Particles, cautions for the use of them, t\%, 
Ought never to close sentences, 117. 

Passioji, the source of oratory, 236. 

Passiojis, when and how to be addressed by 
orators, 321. The orator must feel emo- 
tions before he can communicate them to 
others, 322. The language of, 323. Poets 
address themselves to the passions, 378. 

Pastoral poetry, inquiry into its origin, 387. 
A threefold view of pastoral life, 338. 
Rules for pastoral writing, ibid. Its sce- 
nery, 389. Characters, 391. Subjects, 
392. Comparative merit of ancient pas- 
toral writers, 393. And of moderns, ibid. 

Pathetic, the proper management of, in a 
discourse, 321. Fine instance of, from 
Cicero, 324. 

Pauses, the due uses of, in public speaking, 
331. In poetry, 332, 384. 

Pericles, the first who brought eloquence to 
any degree of perfection, 239. His gene- 
ral character, ibid. 

Period. See Sentence. 

Personification, the peculiar advantages of 
the English language in, 75. Limitations 
of gender in, 76. Objections against the 
practice of, answered, 155. The disposi- 
tion to animate the objects about us natu- 
ral to mankind, ibid. . This disposition 
may account for the number of heathen 
divinities, ibid. Three degrees of this fi- 
gure, 156. Rules for the management of 
the highest degree of, 158. Cautions for 
the use of, in prose compositions, 160. 
See Apostrophe. 

Persius, a character of his satires, 402. 

Perspicuity, ©eeential to a good style, 92s 

Not merely a negative virtue, 93. The 

three qualities of, ibid. 
Persuasion, distinguished from conviction, 

235. Objection brought from the abuse 

of this art, answered, ibid. Rules for, 256. 
Peruvians, their method of transmitting their 

thoughts to each other, 67. 
Petronius Arbiter, his address to the declaim- 

ers of his time, 250. 
Pharsalia. See Lucan. 
Pherecydes of Sycros, the first prose writer, 

61. 
Philips, character of his pastorals, 394. 
Philosophers, modern, their superiority over 

the ancient, unquestionable, 349. 
Philosophy, the proper style of writing 

adapted to, 367. Proper embellishment 

for, ibid. 
Pictures, the first essay toward writing, 66. 
Pindar, his character as a lyric poet, 398. 
Pitcairn, Dr. extravagant hyperbole cited 

from, 154. 
Plato, character of his dialogues, 368. 
Plaulus, his character as a dramatic poet> 

481. 
Pleaders at the bar, instructions to, 269, 313. 
Pliny's Letters, general character of, 371. 
Plutarch, his character as a biographer, 366. 
Poetry, in what sense descriptive, and in 

what imitative, 52. Is more ancient than 



INDEX, 



497 



jimse, 61. Source of the pleasure we re- 
ceive from the figurative style of, 158. 
Test of the merit of, 166. Whence the 
difficulty of reading poetry arises, 332. 
Compared with oratory. 338. Epic, the 
standards of, 351. Definition of poetry, 
376. Is addressed to the imagination and 
the passions, 377. Its origin, ibid. In 
what sense older than prose, ibid. Its 
union with music, 378. Ancient history 
and instruction first, conveyed in poetry, 
379. Oriental, more characteristical of an 
age than of a country, ibid. Gothic, Cel- 
tic, and Grecian, 380. Origin of the dif- 
ferent kinds of, 381. Was more vigorous 
in its first rude essays than under refine- 
ment, ibid. Was injured by the separa- 
tion of music from it, 382. Metrical feet, 
invention of, 383. These measures not 
applicable to English poetry, ibid. Eng- 
lish heroic verse, the structure of, 334. 
French poetry, ibid. Rhyme and blank 
verse compared, 386. Progress of Eng- 
lish versification, 387. Pastorals, ibid. 
Lyrics, 396. Didactic poetry, 399. De- 
scriptive poetry. 404. Hebrew poetry, 
410. Epic poetry, 420. Poetic charac- 
ters, two kinds of, 427. Dramatic poetry, 
452. 

Pointing, cannot correct a confused sen- 
tence, 109. 

Politics, the science of, why ill understood 
among the ancients, 356. 

Polybius, his character as an historian, 
357. 

Pope, criticism on a passage in his Homer, 
40. Prose specimen from, consisting of 
short sentences, 102. Other specimens 
of his style, 1 14, 1 19. Confused mixtures 
of metaphorical and plain language in, 
146. Mixed metaphor in, 149. Confused 
personification, 160. Instance of his fond- 
ness for antithesis, 169. Character of his 
epistolary writings, 372. Criticism on ? 
ibid. Construction of his verse, 385. Pe- 
culiar character of his versification, 387. 
His pastorals, 392, 394. His ethic epistles, 
403. The merits of his various poems ex- 
amined, ibid. Character of his translation 
of Homer, 435. 

Precision in language, in what it consists, 
94. The importance of, ibid. 103. Re- 
quisites to, 100. 

Prepositions, whether more ancientthan the 
declensions of nouns by cases, 77. Whe- 
ther more useful and beautiful, 78. Dr. 
Campbell's observations on, 79, note. 
Their great use in speech, 84. 

Prior, allegory cited from, 151. 

Pronouns, their use, varieties, and cases, 79. 
Relative instances illustrating the impor- 
tance of their proper position In a sen- 
tence, 104. 

Pronunciation, distinctness of, necessary in 
public speaking, 328. Tones of, 333. 

Proverbs, book of. a didactic Poem, 417. 

Rrr 



Psalm xviii, sublime representation of the 
Deily in, 36. lxxxth,afiae allegor) 7 from, 
151. Remarks on the poetic construc- 
tion of the Psalms, 412, 415. 
Pulpit, eloquence of the, defined, 236. Eng- 
lish and French sermons compared, 252 
The practice of reading sermons in Eng- 
land, disadvantageous to oratory, 254 
The art of persuasion resigned to the Pu- 
ritans, ibid. Advantages and disadvanta- 
ges of pulpit eloquence, 280. Rules for 
preaching, 281. The chief characteris- 
tics of pulpit eloquence, 283. Whether 
it is best to read sermons, or deliver them 
extempore, 288. Pronunciation, ibid. Re- 
marks on French sermons, ibid. Cause 
of the dry argumentative style of Eng- 
lish sermons, 290. General observations 
291. 

Pisistralus, the first who cultivated the arts 
of speech, 239. 

Q. 

Quint Man, his ideas of taste, 16, note. His 
account of the ancient division of the 
several parts of speech, 72, noie. His re- 
marks on the importance of the study of 
grammar, 85. On perspicuity of style,' 92. 
97. On climax, 1 16. On the structure of 
sentences, 118. Which ought not to of- 
fend the ear, 120. 125. His caution a- 
gainst too great an attention to harmony, 
127. His caution against uixed metaphor, 
147. His fine apostrophe on the death of 
his son, 161. His rule for the use of simi- 
les, 167. His direction for the use of 
figures of style, 174. His distinctions of 
style, 176, 182. His instructions for good 
writing, 191. His character of Cicero's 1 
oratory, 247. His instructions to public 
speakers for preserving decorum, 260. 
His instructions to judicial pleaders, 270. 
His observations on exordiums to replies 
in debate, 310. On the proper division of 
an oration, 312. His mode of addressing 
the passions, 323. His lively representa- 
tion of the effects of depravity, 339. Is 
the best ancient writer on oratory, 346. 
R. 

Racine, his character as a tragic poet, 472. 

Ramsay, Allan, character of his Gentle 
Shepherd, 396. 

Rapin, P. Remarks on his parallels be- 
tween Greek and Roman writers, 248. 

Rets, Cardinal de, character of his Me- 
moirs, 365. 

Rhetoricians, Grecian, rise and character 
of, 240. 

Rhyme, in English verse, unfavourable to 
sublimity, 39. And blank verse compar- 
ed, 386. The former, why improper in 
the Greek and Latin languages, ibid. 
The first introduction of couplets in Eng- 
lish poetry, 387. 

Richardson, a character of his novels, 376. 

Ridicule, an instrument often misapplied; 
477. 



i y 



INDEX. 



Robinson Crusoe, a character of that novel, 
375. 

Romance, derivation of the term, 374. See 
Novels. 

Rpmans, derived their learning from Greece, 
245. Comparison between them and the 
Greeks, ibid. Historical view of their 
eloquence, ibid. Oratorical character of 
Cicero, 246. ^-Era of the decline of elo- 
quence among, 249. 

Rousseau, Jean Baptiste, his character as a 
lyric poet, 399. 

Rowe, his character as a tragic poet, 475. 
S. 

Sallust, his character as an historian, 357. 

Sanasarius, his piscatory eclogues, 393. 

Satan, examination of his character in Mil- 
ton's Paradise Lost, 450. 

Satire, poetical, general remarks on the 
style of, 402. 

Saxon language, how established in Eng- 
land, 86. 

Scenes, dramatic, what, and the propercon- 
duct of, 462. 

Scriptures, sacred, the figurative style of, 
remarked, 61. The translators of, happy 
in suiting their numbers to the subject, 
123. Fine apostrophe in, l-v2. Present 
ns with the mo?t ancient monuments of 
poetry extant, 410. The diversity of 
.style in the several books of, 411. The 
Psalms of David, 412. IN'o other writings 
abound with such bold and animated 
figures, 414. Parables, 416. Bold and 
sublime instances of personification in, 
■ibid. Book of Proverbs, 417. Lamen- 
tations of Jeremiah , ibid. 

Scuderij Madam, her romances, 375. 

Seneca, his frequent antithesis censured, 
168. Character of his general style, 17S. 
His epistolary writings, 370. 

Sentence, in language, definition of, 101. 
Distinguished into long and short, ibid. A 
variety in, to be studied, 102. The proper- 
ties essential to a perfect sentence, 103. 
A principal rule for arranging the mem- 
bers of, ibid. Position of adverbs, 'ibid. 
And relative pronouns, 104. Unity of a 
sentence, rules for preserving, 107- Point- 
ing, 109. Parenthesis, ibid. Should al- 
ways be brought to a perfect close, ibid. 
Strength,110. Should be cleared of redun- 
dancies, 111. Due attention to particles 
recommended, ibid. The omission of 
particles sometimes connects objects clo- 
ser together, 113. Directions for placing 
the important words, 114. Climax, 116. 
A like order necessary to be observed in ail 
assertions of propositions, ibid. Sentence 
ought not to conclude with a feeble word, 
117. Fundamental rule in the construc- 
tion of, 120. Sound not to be disregarded, 
ibid. Two circumstances 1o be attended 
to for producing harmony in, 121, 125. 
Rules of the ancient rhetoftcialw for this 



purpose, 122. Why harmony much less 
studied now than formerly, ibid. English 
words cannot be so exactly measured by 
metrical feet, as those* of Greek and Latin, 
124. What required for the musical close 
of a sentence, 126. Unmeaning words in- 
troduced merely to round a sentence, a 
great blemish, 127. Sounds ought to be 
adapted to sense, 128. 

Sermons, English compared with French, 
252. Unity an indispensable requisite in, 
283. The subject ought to be precise and 
particular, 284. The subject ought not to 
be exhausted, ibid. Cautions against dry- 
ness, 285. And against conforming to 
fashionable modes of preaching, 286. 
Style, ibid. Quaint expressions, 287. 
Whether best written or delivered ex- 
tempore, 288. Delivery, ibid. Remarks 
on French Sermons, ibid. Cause of the 
dry argumentative style of English ser- 
mons, 290. General observations, 291. 
Remarks on the proper division of, 311. 
Conclusion, 325. Delivery, 326. 

Sevigne", Madam de, character of her let- 
ters, 372. 

Shaftesbury, lord, observations on his style, 
96, 103, 108, 115, 127, 150. His general 
character as a writer, 188. 

Shakspeare, the merit of his plays examined, 
26. Was not possessed of refined taste, 2S. 
Instance of his improperuse of metaphors, 
145, 14S. Exhibits passions in the lan- 
guage of nature, 468. His character as a 
tragic poet, 474. As a comic poet, 433. 

Shenstone, his pastoral ballad, 394. 

S.hepherd, the proper character of, in pasto- 
ral description, 391. 

Sheridan, his distinction between ideas and 
emotions, 333, note. 

Sherlock, bishop, fine instance of personifi- 
cation cited from his sermons, 156. A 
happy allusion cited from his sermons, 
287, note. 

Silius flalicus, his sublime representation of 
Hannibal, 33, vote. 

Simile, distinguished from metaphor, 141. 
163. Sources of the pleasure they af- 
ford, ibid. Two kinds of, 164. Requisites 
in, 165. Rules for, 166. Local propriety 
to be adhered to in, 167. 

Simplicity applied to style, different senses 
of the term, 184. 

Smollett, improper use of figurative style, 
cited from him, 144, note. 

Solomon's song, descriptive beauties of, 407. 

Songs, Runic, the origin of Gothic history, 
379. 

Sophists of Greece, rise and character of,240, 

Sophocles, the plots of his tragedies remark- 
ably simple, 458. Excelled in the pathe- 
tic, 468. His character as a tragic, poet, 
470. 

Sorrow, why the emotions of, excited by 
tragedy, communivate pleasure, 461. 



INDEX. 



49< 



bounds, of an awful nature, affect us with 
sublimity, 30. Influence of, in the forma- 
tion of words, 55. 

Speaker, public, must be directed inore by 
his ear than by rules, 124. 

Spectator, general character of thatpublica- 
tion, 193. Critical examination of those 
papers that treat of the pleasures of the 
imagination, 194. 

Speech, the power of, the distinguishing 
privilege of mankind, 9. The grammat- 
ical division of, into eight parts, not logi- 
cal, 72. Of the ancients, regulated by mu- 
sical rules, 122. 

Strada, his character as an historian, 364. 

Style, in language defined, 91. The differ- 
ence of, in different countries, 92. The 
qualities of a good style, ibid. Perspicui- 
ty, ibid. Obscurity, owing to indistinct 
conceptions, 93. Three requisite quali- 
ties in perspicuity, ibid. Precision, 94. 
A loose style, from what it proceeds, 95. 
Too great an attention to precision ren- 
ders a style dry and barren, 100. French 
distinction of style, 102. The characters 
of, flow from peculiar modes of thinking, 
175. Different subjects require a different 
style, ibid. Ancient distinctions of, 176. 
The different kinds of, ibid. Concise and 
diffusive, on what occasions proper, 177. 
Nervous and feeble, 178. A harsh style, 
from what it proceeds, 179. Era of the 
formation of our present style, 180. Dry- 
manner described, ibid. A plain style, 
ibid. Neat style, 181. Elegant style, 
182. Florid style, ibid. Natural style, 
184. Different senses of the term simplici- 
ty, ibid. T be Greek writers distinguish- 
ed for simplicity, 185. Vehement style, 
189. General directions how to attain a 
good style, 190. Imitation dangerous, 
192. Style not to be studied to the neg- 
lect of thoughts, 193. Critical examina- 
tion of those papers in the Spectator th»t 
treat of the pleasures of imagination, 194. 
Critical examination of a passage in Swift's 
writings, 224. General observations, 233. 
See Eloquence. 

Sublimit]/ of external objects, and sublimity 
in writing distinguished, 29. Its impres- 
sions, ibid. Of space, 30. Of sounds, ibid. 
Violence of the elements, ibid. Solemnity, 
bordering on the terrible, ibid. Obscuri- 
ty, not unfavourable to, 31. In buildings, 
32. Heroism, ibid. Great virtue, 33. 
Whether there is any one fundamental 
quality in the sources of sublime, ibid. 

Sublimity in writing, 34. Errors in Longi- 
nus pointed out, ibid. The most ancient 
writers afford the most striking instances 
of sublimity, 36. Sublime representation 
of the Deity in Psalm xviii. ibid. And in 
the prophet Habakkuk, ibid. In Moses, 
ibid. And in Isaiah, 37. Instances of sub- 
limity in Homer, ibid. In Ossian, 38. 



Amplification injurious to sublimity, 391 
Rhyme in English verse unfavourable to[ 
ibid. Strength essential to sublime wril 
ting, 41. A proper choice of circumstan I 
ces essential to sublime description, ibidt 
Strictures on Virgil's description of Mount 
yEtna, 42. The proper sources of th€| 
sublime, 43. Sublimity consists in tin 
thought, not in the words, ibid. Tht 
faults opposed to the sublime, 44. 

Sully, Duke de, character of his memoirs 
365. 

Superstition, sublime representation of it| 
dominion over mankind, from Lucretius 
32, note. 

Swift, observations on his style, 94. 10(1 
108.118. 128. General character of hi| 
style, 181. Critical examination of the bt 
ginning of his proposal for correcting, &.( 
the English tongue, 224. Concludin| 
observations, 233. His language, 34< 
Character of his epistolary writing, 372. 

Syllables, English, cannot be exactly meas 
ured by metrical feet, as those of Greej 
and Latin, 124. 

Synedoche, in figurative stvle, explainec 
141. 

Synonymous words, observations on, 97. 
T. 

Tacitus, character of his style, 177. HI 
character as a historian, 357. His liappl 
manner of introducing incidental obseif 
vations, 358. Instance of his successfi 
talent in historical painting, 361. H| 
defects as a writer, 362. 

Taaso, a passage from his Gierusalemme di| 
tinguished by the harmony of number 
129. Strained sentiments in his pastoral 
391. Character of his Aminta, 394. Ci 
tical examination of his poem, 443. 

Taste, true, the uses of, in common lit 
13. Definition of, 15. Is more or lei 
common to all men, 16. Is an improb| 
ble faculty, 17. How to be refined, 18. 
assisted by reason, ibid. A good heart ri 
quisite to a just taste, 19. Delicacy ai| 
correctness the characters of perfect tas^ 
ibid. Whether there be any standard 
taste, 20. The diversity of, in differel 
men, no evidence of their tastes beiif 
corrupted, 21. The test of, referred 
the concurring voice of the polished pj 
of mankind, 23. Distinguished from 
nius, 27. The sources of pleasure i| 
28 The powers of, enlarge the spin 
of our pleasures, 29. Imitation, as| 
source of pleasure, 51. Music, ibid. 
what class the pleasures received fro| 
eloquence, poetry, and fine writing, 
to be referred, ibid. 

Telemachus. See Fenelon. 

Temple sir William, observations on 
style, 95. Specimens, 102, 108, 110, 1 
125. His general character as a writer, 15 

Terence, beautiful instance of simplicil 



4 500 



I INDEX, 



j from, 186. His character as a dramatic 
writer, 48 i 

j } Terminations of words, the variation of, in 
the Greek and Latin languages, favourable 

ft to the liberty of transposition, 64. 
Theocritus, the earliest known writer of pas- 
torals, 388. His talents in painting rural 
scenery, 389. Character of his pastorals, 
393. 
Thomson, fine passage from, where he ani- 

jl mates all nature, 158. Character of his 
seasons, 405. His eulogiumby Dr. John- 

jtj son, ibid. note. 
Thuanus, his character as an historian, 356. 

gThucydides, his character as an historian, 

g 355. Was the first who introduced ora- 

S tions in historical narration, 362. 
Tillotson, archbishop, observations on his 

5 style, 95, 106, 125, 145. General charac- 
ter of,' as a writer, 186. 

^Tories, the due management of, in public 
speaking, 333. 

^Topics, among the ancient rhetoricians, ex- 
plained, 316. 

^Tragedy, how distinguished from comedy, 
452. More particular definition of, 453. 
Subject and conduct of, 454. Rise and 
progress of, 455. The three dramatic 
unities, 457. Division of the representa- 
tion into acts, 458. The catastrophe, 460. 
Why the sorrow excited by tragedy com- 
municates pleasure, 467. The proper idea 
of scenes, and how to be conducted, 
462. Characters, 464 Higher degrees of 
morality inculcated by modern than by 
ancient tragedy, 465. Too great use made 
of the passion of love on the modern 

,q, stages, 466. All tragedies expected to be 

g, pathetic, ibid. The proper use of moral 
reflections in, 469. The proper style and 
versification, ibid. Brief view of the 

,5, Greek stage, 470. French tragedy, 472. 
English tragedy, 474. Concluding obser- 
vations, 476. 

'ropes, a definition of, 132. Origin of, 134. 
The rhetorical distinctions among, frivo- 
lous, 140. 

'urnus, the character of, not favourably 
treated in the yEneid, 439. 
\irpin, archbishop of Rheims, a romance 
writer, 374. 
typographical figures of speech, what, 170. 

anburgh, his character as a dramatic wri- 
ter, 484. 

erbs, their nature and office explained, 81. 
No sentence complete without a verb, ex- 
pressed or implied, ibid. The tenses, 82. 
The advantage of English over the Latin, 
in the variety of tenses, ibid. Active and 
passive, ibid. Are the most artificial and 
complex of all the parts of speech, 83. 
irse, blank, more favourable to sublimity 



than rhyme, 39. Instructions tor the 
reading of, 332. Construction of, 385. 

Virgil, instances of sublimity in, 31,41, 42. 
Of harmony, 130, 131. Simplicity of lan- 
guage, 134. Figurative language, 141, 156, 
161. Specimens of his pastoral descrip- 
tions. 389, note, 391. Character of his 
pastorals, 393. His Georgics, a perfect 
model of didactic poetry, 400. Beautiful 
descriptions in his yEneid, 407. Critical 
examination of that poem, 437. Compared 
with Homer, 440. 

Virtue, high degrees of, a source of the sub- 
lime, 33. A necessary ingredient to form 
an eloquent orator, 338. 

Vision, the figure of speech so termed, in 
what it consists. 171. 

Unities, dramatic, the advantages of adher- 
ing to, 457. W 7 hy the moderns are less 
restricted to the unities of time and place 
than the ancients, 463. 

Voice, the powers of, to be studied in public 
speaking, 328. 

Voiture, character of Lis epistolary writings, 
372. 

Voltaire, his character as an historian, 366. 
Critical examination of his Henriade, 448. 
His argument for the use of rhyme in dra- 
matic composition, 470. His character 
as a tragic poet, 473. 

Vossius, Joannes Gerardus, character of his 
writings on eloquence, 345. 
W. 

Waller, the first English poet who brought 
couplets into vogue, 387. 

Wit, is to be very sparingly used at the bar, 
272. 

Words, obsolete, and new coined, incongru- 
ous with purity of stle, 93. Bad conse- 
quences of their being ill chosen, ibid. 
Observations on those termed synony- 
mous, 97- Considered with reference to 
sound, 121. 

Words, and things, instances of the analogy 
between, 55. 

Writers of genius, why they have been more 
numerous in one age than another, 347- 
Four happy ages of, pointed out, ibid. 

Writing, two kinds of, distinguished, 65. 
Pictures, the first essay in, 66. Hierogly- 
phic, the second, ibid. Chinese charac- 
ters, 67. Arithmetical figures, 68. The 
considerations which led to the invention 
of an alphabet, ibid. Cadmus's alphabet 
the origin of that now used, 69. Historical 
account of the materials used to receive 
writing, 70. General remarks, ibid. See 
Grammar. 

Y. 

Young, Dr. his poetical character, 150. Too 
fond of antithesis, 168. The merit of bis 
works examined, 403. His character as* 
a tragic poet, 475. 



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